Veins, trees, roots,
societies, species, groups.
experiments of life itself
like some ten year old's ant farm
check it out on his shelf.
mindsets with chemicals,
controlled by our brains,
are just different settings for
someone else's mind games.
one trial, another, whichever one works,
if it doesn't no loss, He can work out the quirks.
I guess we're all just one part of a cycle
Like a garden or colony, a universe, a milky way,
A planet, some gnarly astronomy.
the sun and the moon and everything's orbit
never cease to change or stay still
if that's too confusing ignore it.

A kiss is a millisecond, or hour, (or whatever other period of time that you escape reality and become one with another person) through touching their lips with yours. But, as we know from Flight of the Conchords, a kiss is not a contract. It's a promise. A promise that you're sharing that moment with only them, and that you are willing to spend that increment of time devoting yourself to the only thing that matters to you in the present: them. A kiss is cherished so much that a small chocolate candy was dedicated to the universal verb of love itself: to kiss. To smooch. A Hershey Kiss is sweet, small, and traditional. Just as the action is. A kiss is vulnerability. Naked, without anything fake holding you from the other person. The real you is summoned from behind the front you put up for everyone else to make you seem stronger, only to wisp through the soft pink lips that have whispered so many secrets, said so many words, and bit themselves so many times in a blushing moment when they said you were beautiful, into the others lips where they have done the same. Kissing has no rules. It's who you are in a peck. A movement. An open smile, a nibble, a bite, a tickle. No wonder why it's a special thing. Kissing is melting into the very place you are standing or sitting or laying and melding to the person's soul. The most innocent way to become one with another, risque enough to be special. Kissing can mean nothing, as well. It can be so over used that the meaning and spark has gone from it. Melding to the other person, mashing the color of your skin and the smell of your hair and the warmth of your breath into a pool of indifferent gray. Kissing needs to be used wisely. People often overlook the most beautiful thing in the world, so I decided to give it some recognition. Love, Frances.

Okay, so
What would you do,
If I told you that I've just realized
The entire idea of society in history
Is being recycled? History is being repeated,
Over and
Over
Again, until it can repeat that, too.
The different time periods aren't matched up,
And different places are in different cycles.
But when you think about it,
Isn't society just adjusting, and not changing,
Because of new technology and
Other **** like that?

So in these messed up fairy tales
that **** all our dreams
by conjuring them up to be
greater than seems
then burning them down
with reality's flame
leaves just empty hearts,
and cold eyes left to blame.
Love can't come back
once it is finally gone,
forever remembered in
old soulful love songs.
because when love runs,
it's feet leave the ground
and it flies far away,
lighter than sound
in a heavy dark room
where silence rules all
when one sigh is a hope
declared way too small.
But I guess that's all you need
is a hope that had faded
because hope can grow too,
it is never out dated.
so even though the love flew
and the songs are unsung,
chase after that love
let your spring become sprung
in the eyes of true love
waiting for you today
so just go out and chase them,
and that's all I can say.

There is a cold rain falling from a sky of darkness
Little diamond angel tears cry to the ground
And as wind ripples in the puddles that the rain had kissed
I look, and see no sanity is to be found.
So I sold my soul to the man dressed in black
Signed my name to him, not knowing of it's worth,
And then I found that there we many things I needed back
But it was too late, the man dug me down into the earth.
The devil laughed, as he held my soul in hand
I looked up, searching for hope through my demise,
Realizing life hadn't quite gone as I had planned.
I threw my heart to the depths of too many shallows
Let it hurtle, skipping stone, like through a stream,
And my love it seeped right through, lost in deepest hallows,
All hope was gone and my true love was just a dream.
I hadn't tasted the sweet freedom of the autumn wind
Kissing rose cheeks like the warm breath of a child,
Searching to the ends of the earth; the depths of my mind
To find life's worth and what it was like to be wild.
I'd never run so hard my lungs started burnin',
Straight down the street not knowing where to go,
Never got lost on purpose, not looking which way I'd turn,
Or breathed the air, as brisk and cool as winter snow.
I hadn't stopped to look at the sky, and how the clouds did blow,
Or how the blues turned into grays, greens, pinks, and whites,
I never stopped to find the colors hidden in the crow,
It's feathers spectrum undiscovered, black as night.
And as I thought of all the things in life that I had lost,
The devil shoveled on the last bite of my strife,
And my last thought that sanity is the only cost,
In order to know what it's really like to live your life.

Okay. Here's the truth. You ready?

Love stories are never finished correctly. They're left off in the middle. The "happily ever after" you read at the end of a storybook isn't really where that story comes to a halt. The author just leaves out the reality aspect of it, for the sake of a small hope that burns beneath the surface of their fantasy loving persona (as all artists have). They want the next generation that reads their stories to break the vicious cycle of passing love by. As you can see as you go on living your life, you will realize the rest of the pages are missing, and what they would say. They would describe the pain. The suffering, the arguments, the self hatred, regret, and everything else that could possibly go wrong, just because of the little tickle inside your heart whenever you see him...And it's all the author's fault. Of that story book when you were small, naive and innocent, receiving every word drawn in your mind by their words, faithful that you weren't being lied to. Guess what?

Think again.

So when you get let down, blame it on the people that planted the idea of true love into your mind. It all goes back to the fault of a human's need for companionship. And when that perfection isn't achieved, the human's need to lie.

You know, there are a million (at least)
Kids who think they're unique and write about what they have
In their unoriginal, merely subsisting minds;
uneven, unfinished, thoughts on blue lines.
People just don't get that their lives are, well,
theirs. If they want, they can. Nobody else cares.
I'm sick and I'm tired
Fed up with this ****
Surviving on adrenaline,
Sleep and my wit.
I didn't sign up for this,
And when I came in,
I didn't like it,
Not one little bit.
Now I'm just sitting,
Waiting for something
I can't put my finger on,
Staring out the window
Tracing shapes in the
Lawn and I'm so sick and tired
I can't even rhyme
This entire little rant
Was just a waste of my time.