What Am I thinking?
You ask,
As I trace the shape of you
Swirling from one contour to the next
Impossibly smooth
Hands on the move
Gripping you tightly
Tight enough to nearly strangle
Pulling you closer
Close enough to listen
Listening for those quiet little sounds
that gently escape your lips
From those lips
The heat of your breath
Breathing raggedly by my neck
My mind escapes into my body
Thoughts replaced by my senses
letting my sensations fill the moment
Not a thought,
Just a feeling.

Foreign places
Familiar faces
I remember how it started,
But how did I get here?
Coming down
On the ground
I know what's right
Yet my decision remains unclear
I need not say,
I cannot stay,
Far much longer,
Stuck this way.
I'm wasting my youth
Running from this truth
I'm becoming numb
To what my life has become.
Or is it mine at all?
It used to be.
"There's always tomorrow"
I say in the present,
Until one day soon,
There isn't.

I walk outside
Beholding the night
A chill fills the air
In the waning light
The sun goes to bed
In its evening blindfold
No moon to shine
It’s becoming cold
All alone
And now I can’t see
**** this ****
I’m going home.

Testing Testing,
One two three.
Are you listening?
Seems to be.
What's the message?
I am me.
That will not change,
So let it be.

Just a tiny spark,
to ignite the fire
of my whole world.

Whatever’s left;
Left between the cracks
Discarded like simple trash
Forgotten by all but some,
valued by none.
Outlived by its purpose,
all alone and restless.
A promised future
left Shattered,
by the weight of its own dreams
The Myth of itself
dissipated into history.
Nothing but the faded stain
of a quiet memory.

Why lame McGee?
Why would you
choose to be,
Lame McGee?
Soon Forgotten
in history,
Only because she
refused a simple plee,
Long Gone,
But not long missed
R.I.P. Lame McGee.

Night is called Evening
an Evening,
Evening of the scores.
Matters settled
Wrongs made right
In cover of the dark,
but never brought to light.

Memories,
like looking through stain glass
directly into our past.
Obscured in their nature,
yet always seeming brighter
than our future.

Humans are by nature
unappeasable  no matter their behavior.
As a conformist
We threaten outsiders,
Yet long to be our own person.
And individuality is no better,
We long for acceptance of
The group we once called home.
That is the nature of humans,
We viscously treat
those that are not like us.
Its no wonder so few are happy
with such constant inner confliction.
Because the human mind is
a kingdom ruled by two fears,
Fear of the unknown,
And Fear of rejection.

The Pressure
pressing down on me
the weight of all the world,
& all it's words.
the weight of the words left unspoken,
left behind by the needed.
The conscious unconsciousness,
restrains our imagination.
Morality,
restrains our actions.
The need for order,
restrains our inner chaos.
We limit ourselves,
because we feel pressure to do so.
14 pounds per square inch,
of pressure from every direction.
Holding us together,
while keeping us down.

Untitled?*
Oh really?
They couldn't just leave it blank?
Untitled sounds disappointed,
Like they expect every poem to have a real title.
Or that it somehow makes it less of a poem,
because it simply lacks a word at the top?
Some poems don't need a title,
& this is no exception.
If I wanted a title I would have put one,
So please just leave it be.

Crushed to death
Without space for breath.
Struggling with inner force,
Yet lacking remorse.
To say I tried,
would mean I lied.
But trying isn't enough
when the going gets tough.
Sick of it all,
& awaiting the fall.
Which is why,
I must say,
*Goodbye

My words linger,
trapped in the space
between my mind and my mouth.
Stuck in a limbo
below my stream of consciousness
and above any translation.

Love is like,
A man born without arms,
He lives his life accepting his disability,
But Constantly jealous of those with arms.
he sees people with arms of every variety; skinny, tattooed, bruised or muscled, and even some like him.
Everyday he watches people use and missuse their arms,
Yet Barely appreciating the mere existence of their own arms.
One day, he hears about a new procedure that could give him fully functioning prosthetic arms.
He is hesitant about the cost and risk,
but decides he must try.
A week later after a successful surgery,
The bandages finally fly free, and so do his arms.
He flexes and bends them every way possible,
testing the boundaries of what feels like a new world to him.
There is an endless beauty in their function.
He feels a joyous wonder,
to experience the touch and precision
of his sweetly sensitive fingertips caressing the surface of anything in their reach.
For the first time, he finally knows what true freedom feels like.

  Months pass as he becomes familiar with a new world under his fingertips.
But as time goes on he begins to notice occasional malfunctions in his daily tasks.
He thinks hes losing touch with the connections used to communicate with the main circuits,
But doesn't think it could get worse.
As Weeks pass more connections falter between him and his once perfect partner.

The day starts like any other winter morning,
an icy cold, cloudy drizzle.
He's driving the windy back roads to work,
rounding a sharp bend in the road, when he suddenly feels a spasm ripple through his arms
ripping his hand from the wheel and all control.
His car veers off the roadside cliff
leaving gravity to doom him to an icy river below.
The car careens through the droplets of rain in the air.
His world slows down as the car begins to plummet downward,
only seconds before impact.
The freezing icy rain and air rip
through the broken windshield,
but nothing feels colder than the betrayal of the arms he once held so dear.
And in that moment,
he wishes that he'd never had arms at all.

There is a kindness in your eyes,
Always hidden by dark lenses.
It bleakens your world by only a shade,
But hides the beauty
Waiting inside
A tenderness in the wonder,
Behind those eyes
You have so much to give the world
Yet Held back only
by your own worries of self worth
Do not think that you aren't good enough,
Because acceptance starts with yourself.
The world will value you,
Only as much as you value yourself.

I know some about you,
although it is only data,
images, words, & letters.
Which I somehow assemble,
into the concept of a person,
tapping on the other end,
of our digitally connected screens.
a connection, but also a barrier,
between which no two peole can touch.
you can send yourself in spirit,
but what gets left behind in your pixels,
is you.

Late night thoughts
Words glorified by the night,
Each letter's meaning becomes fully realized.
Text stretched into the third dimension
Written into the imagination
And Laced with promise.
Yet day breaks,
The sun reaches from the horizon
to pull the veil of night.
Its bright glare shatters the illusion,
exposing the hollow promise
inside each letter's shallow meaning.

Please,
Do not think,
That it was
You
Do not think
That it was
Me
Maybe it was simply
us
That could not
*be

When life gives you lemons,
make sure you keep the receipt,
because lemons are a horrible gift.

No one can help you
unless you help yourself first.

I looked in the mirror today
but the person looking back,
wasn't me.

The Black hole
Draws everything in
A massive vortex
Of unfathomable mass
Crushing itself under its own weight
What it pulls in is never seen again
You might think it becomes nothing
But hidden in the void
of eternal darkness
Is the nothing that is everything.

Take me Up
Up, Up, and away
From all my troubles
That lay below
Hold on to me tight
And never let go.

We are always trying to become equal
what makes it so special?
That is unique to human nature
to idealize and to hope
And yet,
life isn't fair.
And nature doesn't pretend otherwise
Neither should we.
The lion doesn't starve
to protect the endangered zebra.
No matter how much we fight nature,
We can’t control it.

Why can't we see
what was always there?
Did we not look hard enough,
or just not try hard enough?
When the lights are off,
Hands become your eyes
Only then,
Can we truly see
The hidden depth
of true beauty.

What we were & what we are,
But who are we?

How did we come to be?
The question that
Puzzles the human race.
Sometimes we forget
That it’s not *where
We have been
That is important,
But who we are going to be.

What does it mean
To mean?
What does it matter
To matter?
How does it feel
To feel?
All I know is that,
It Feels like it Means something,
to Matter.

Maybe I was never broken,
Just not the way you wanted,
Maybe it hurts you,
to know that I am more
than just an extension of you.
You expected me to be a mirror,
But just because you can’t see yourself in me,
Doesn't mean I’m broken glass.

Hands have a power,
unlike any other.
They can lend a hand,
Or hold people down.
Spend years to build cities,
Or press the button,
that destroys them.
They can touch and feel,
yet they can also strangle.
Our eyes give us two dimensions,
Hands give us the third.
But the real problem is,
That hands never hold enough hands.
Only because,
we are too busy,
holding them in fists.

Together we follow,
whoever walks in front.
Minding our own footsteps,
But never looking up.
Shuffling without purpose,
around an endless circular track.
They never rest or stop,
just to wonder Why?
But that doesn't change a thing,
Because we follow just the same.

Black and white
Light and Dark.
My soul rests beside me,
as I recline in my seat.
Filled with wonder,
I contemplate his purpose.
I stare through where eyes should be
into a strange darkness,
An infinitely empty space.
Deep in the pools of black
a faded light, Barely visible.
The light begins to grow,
It flashes blindingly bright.
the light lasts but a moment
before it shrinks to a spec
never lit again.

A ship in the distance grows nearer,
Drawing ever closer,
But once it’s close enough to board,
the engines roar to life.
Reaching for the ladder,
as the ship moves out of reach,
Your hands grasp nothing but air
A ship that never really,
*Was ever there.

A ship in the distance grows nearer,
Drawing ever closer,
But once it’s close enough to board,
the engines roar to life.
Reaching for the ladder,
as the ship moves out of reach,
Your hands grasp nothing but air
A ship that never really,
*Was ever there.

Deaths are like tally marks on your mind.
They are charcoal black tick marks
that build on your subconscious,
never fading to scars.
Some are merely penciled in,
like the death of an aunt you never knew.
However the death of someone close cuts deep into you;
a constantly fresh wound.
Never scarring, never healing, it only festers.
But watching someone die burns a dark wound into your brain,
a permanent scorched mark,
the insignia of a life taken forever,
branded onto your thoughts.
We can never remove our tallies and
they only build over time,
our mind growing darker from past sufferings.
But when all that remains is what caused it in the beginning: death.
you become just another tally on those you loved.

A random chance,
Fraction of a second.
But coincidence or fate,
Two dimensions poised
Divergent courses take a tangent
An intersection never meant to be.
What they lack in time together
Is made up for in passion.
For a fraction of a second
They become one.
The Moment Rests,
hung in silent tranquility,
In that perfect little piece,
of Eternity.

Can't it always be this way
why do people change,
why does time move on.
we struggle against a current
that pulls our body one way,
but the soul another.
It pulls my hand from your grasp,
desperately struggling
to hold the precious memory
of a time long since past.

They think they see through the prison that they call home
I see them all around me
Their Eyes with tinted seals
A one way mirror.
Unescapable, improbable, impossible.
How they think they can live
In this cage
Nothing but an observer
Of a wild illusion
Life is what holds them
Rooted to a false reality.
But true freedom will never begin
Until someone sets them free.