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As far as I know, we only really live once.
Even if we live more lives, this one,
RIGHT NOW!
Is the one you're living.
So, by all means,
dye your hair blue.
You should pick up that violin
and play the crap out of it.
Hell, get a tattoo.
But if that's not you,
don't go there.
Buy a sweater and
cut it up, and
wear that fancy number
to the supermarket.
Pick up that paintbrush
and paint me a mural.
Paint yourself a mural, ******!
But if that's just not you,
don't go there.
But please, please,
pUUUHleaaaseeeee remember
that YOU are not a
stereotype!
You don't fit into a
category!
You are you AND
FOR CRYING OUT LOUD
DON'T LOSE YOURSELF.
It is difficult to not get caught
in the stream.
Swimming upstream...
It's risky.
It's hard.
But if you stand out,
you won't be blending in.
If you're not blending in,
then you're clearly not the
same color.
Who want's to be beige
when you could be aqua?
But if that's not you...
Be beige!
BE BEIGE IN A SEA OF
PINK AND PURPLE
AND RED AND
GREEN AND BLUE!
Is this cliche? I don't know. I'm feelin' the mood, guys!
"Be yourself, because everyone else is taken."
       -Oscar Wilde, ma main man, homedog skillet
To be free.
How common a thought,
but unusual a concept.
Are you free,
little bee?
To be weightless in mind,
body,
spirt.
Hollow,
would you be?
To be free,
my little bee,
would you have to
be devoid of
all things-
mind?
body?
spirit?

No,
my little bee.
Nobody.
Could you shatter the
chains and float
away to the sun?
My little bee.
Darling.
You were born into
self inflicted-
external,
internal-
captivity.
Mind,
body,
spirit.

You are bound by
what makes you
human.
Little bee.
Little bee,
the catch 22 is
upon us.
Today began with
                                   frosty dewdrops that
                   clung to my feathers.
               I was damp and cold,
               But the sun was beginning  
                       to peek through the morning
                                         mist.
                      I let out a trill, my morning song.

           Everything in my nest smelled
                                             of rain.
         The leaves and sticks, the
               seeds and feathers.
                      I hopped about for a moment,
                  fluttering my wings,
                        warming them.
             Then, with one last jump,
             I let myself fall,
               but only to let myself fly.

                  I had flown before.  
                       I fly everyday.  
                    But everyday it still feels  
             special and new.
                            Over hills and valleys,
                dipping and diving,
                              I sang.
                                        Warm breezes ruffled the down          
                                              on my tummy,
         and thermals over the ocean
                                   lifted me higher,
                            higher, higher.
                      I felt like the most colorful bird
                                                   on the planet.  
                             Wings with 20+1 colors.
fall turns to winter
a heartbeat
is there?
was there?
will there be?
dusty branches fall away
leaving the bark to peel and fade
to white
white like black
a shade
translucent, opaque, quiet, alone, hiding from what makes them run
your withered wings
you can’t fly
you can’t get away from Why,
get past Why
is it all you ask, Why?
the wind spins past your outstretched fingers, rustling though the dead feathers on your back
humming
ash falls like snow
a black and white world
for granted, did you take it?
winter turns to spring
but flowers don’t grow here, not anymore
isn’t it funny how a broken clock
still ticks
even after time has stopped?
your eyes don’t blink
and your tears have frozen
to your fingers, cheeks
the cold ground you’ve lain on
stuck in a moment
of decaying emotion
years old
humming
like the wind
an undercurrent
too deep to find, buried far too deep into your
past
present
future
but you don’t have a future
you can’t fly
Walls and gates kept her away
from what she needed
but didn't want
Beds of white cotton
submerged in what she
thought she didn't feel
Dusty pens in a dusty cup
on a dusty desk
She hammered at armor
that she had been hammering at
for years
since she was a young child
binding the pieces but
secretly
looking for cracks
to break out of
Kicking *** and taking names
but throwing the names away
Ripping keys out of the
typewriter

Every fifth letter
scratched into porcelain skin
Soap stripping her of what
made her normal
But there is no normal
She was still abnormal
Trying to open herself
to let the oxygen-free blood
stain her outline
so she could be seen
for a moment
Just one moment
and then get erased by
everyone
else
like always
She wanted to fly and shine
but there were others already
shining
and flying
Sun flashing and illuminating her
skeleton
Her skin transparent while lit
by the sun

Her heartbeat
skipped
and
stopped
and faltered
She tried to lose herself in everything she could
You could say she was selfish
but
you could say she just wanted to
be found, though,
by the right person
There is no right person
because anyone can break a shell
but nobody cares enough
to see what kind
of radiance
will light up the
universe
Nobody cares
that with every
single word
she is thrown
through windshields
Shards of glass
scathing her
inside
and
out

Drowning in pristine lakes
of beautiful love and
joy
How painful to not be able
to inhale
while drowning in
pristine lakes of lovely happiness
She could feel the
currents rushing past her fingers
but couldnt hold on
But she wanted to
She wanted to
hold
on
The title doesn't go with the poem, but I'm not too concerned about it.
I once stopped a Sparrow while I was up in the clouds.
I asked him for a flying lesson, because I was stuck
in the fluffy white vapors.
Steve the Sparrow is a fantastic teacher.
I fly around all the time,
but I also still climb up the clouds
like I used to.

Bad habits die hard.
Some don't die at all.
Physics and Philosophy go hand in hand,
I have to say.
One without the other is a hollow, empty shell.
But every now and then, you'll find someone
Who says they're two different things.
And they are.
They're completely different.
But one without the other is an empty, dry shell.

Every time you look at a ray of sunshine, you're looking back in time.
Time is distance,
Time is relative.
This is what Physics will tell you.
But Philosophy might say,
Time is not a fixed thing,
It's so unfixed we can control and warp it
With our minds.

We can crack the universe open and empty it out into
A sparkly pile of planets and stars with Philosophy,
And use Physics to make sure that
None of our stars
Break.
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