Each and every single one of my friends is great at something and good at even more:

Writing papers, politics, dealing with little kids, art, making music, fixing cars, etc.

These are all interesting or cool, unique in a way that fits these people’s personalities.

But my list of things I’m good at starts with giving head...
And ends with writing half-decent poetry.

What a useless bunch of skills, don’t you agree?

A sack of flesh,
Piloted by a conscious,
That wishes it wasn't.

Swept under the rug;
Forgotten-as if i had
Never existed.

I wish I knew how rose petals felt after fresh rain.
I wish I knew how the clouds looked as they drifted over frosty mountains.
I wish I could remember the smell of the kitchen while my mother cooked dinner.

But here I am, and here I will stay;
The world unfamiliar to my eyes,
Because I doubt that they would see it’s beauty.

I truly wish,
That I could have known,
How it felt,
To not fall victim,
To this pain.

What am I doing?
Living and breathing for sure;
There isn’t much else.

I've got nothing left
My mind completely empty;
Thus I drift to sleep.

Wandering aimlessly-
things bend and break,
take a deep breath; at long last
lay thine soul to rest.

Eyes bathed in swaths of silvery moonlight-
Reflections of past days and future nights.

Functionally dysfunctional,
Beautifully broken,
Stuck upon clouds permeated only by the occasional ray of sun.

Two sides to every story,
Light and dark; sun and moon.

That's where I found you:

Balanced precariously on the tightrope that divides the sky and the Earth.

A horizon
to
call
your
own.

Unable to bend, unable to break, for if you did, the world itself would rush up to meet you.

Take a deep breath and take the next step, just please...

Don't miss.