You said to me:
                           "If I'm going to be alive
                            I might as well be incredible
                            I want to do more than just exist."

I couldn't say what I wanted to, so I wrote you a riddle that I'll never show and you'll never see:

I was born innocent and strong heart-ed
I grew up with a firm footing and quick grasp
I lived with determination and loved my love with pure certainty

Soon I imagine, my acclaimed wisdom will be passed along
As if that has any significance
And then after
I'll be dead.

She came upon a white horse,
through those dark melancholic shadows,
her long black hair glistening under a blood red moon,
the paleness of her skin reflecting its caustic beams,
dazzling, beguiling,  she comes for my soul,
the fire from her eyes burning my core,
searching through the dark folds of night,
she finds me and takes my hand,
it sears, it burns but I must embrace this pain,
pulling me from the darkness of this rancid void,
her great black wings shielding me from the light,
I surrender it all to my angel of the night.

me to tears
people and their belongings
unheeded longings
away from fears

moving

interstellar orbs
doing this for the sum of all hobbies
in the darkness naked bodies
all the space two could absorb

moving

fast running in circles
age rejects the skin wrapped tight around the bones
the mind keeps ticking like a bomb that nobody owns
chasing own tails and squirrels

moving

digging up forgotten nuggets
helping them find a nut!
they stole your marbles, but
you have a gun and no bullets.

you moved.

I find it ironic how most dystopian novels are about a utopia
A world created to be perfect because ours failed
A world full of control, uniformity, perfection, no reflection
No identity, no war, no lust, maybe lust. Maybe just lust.
Broken, failed, oh how this brave new world derailed
It's a mishap, a hit and a miss, a world full of "ignorance is bliss"
Hidden from the view,
Or maybe just hidden from you
Oh yes it's quite ironic how the perfect world is ours,
Which we find so imperfect as we stare up at the stars
And wish for a world that we could just be one
Because everyone belongs to everyone