There is a kind of weather where you feel naked, floating in a warm bath.
A gush of wind imitates water as it brushes past.
Your fingers create rippling rings in puddles you touch
And in those moments, you can't help but notice the world is quiet and hushed.
Slowly you watch the ripples ebb to their limit,
And it reminds you that this world is merely a planet  
That waxes and wanes, and rushes like warm water.
But you know it's more than just nature to an author,
It's a place where wind makes you feel vulnerable and licks at your skin
and the rare occurrence of weather like this, renews life in your heart yet again.

It's so still that the wind doesn't breathe.
You walk swiftly to ignore the leaves.
You're there with your hair swirling in the sudden breeze
On top of a mountain looking down on the trees.

Your shadow crashes into the gray sky.
There is apprehension in your eye,
But you push past the fear to die.
In that moment you want to jump off the side,
Fling yourself over the edge and hope to god you fly.

Your hope moves like honey
Slow and thick, oozing yet still runny.
It's okay, you think, death is kind of funny.

You balance on your toes,
Looking past the lines and rows.
You lightly press your heels into the soil
Ready to spring forward, beginning your coil

Then, you release.
Plummeting downward yet, finally feeling at peace.

He saw the crimson flames bud from beneath his shirt like flowers.
He watched in awe as the heat engulfed him with the buzzing showers.
His eyes watched the fire play,
mirrored in my own
This was something I had never known.
Then the sparks formed a cascading spray,
this was the price I had to pay.
It crackled and raced with relentless speed;
this was everything I would ever need.
The room began to blaze and the wood started to smolder.
I could feel it rush like electricity across my shoulder.
His eyes were full of desire
And when he leaned in, it seemed like the world was on fire.

Oh poetry,
I'm drunk again talking to myself.
I wish that you were here to aid in this wallowing self pity.
I'm drunk, moving my mind in endless circles
Wondering how the earth could make me so dizzy.
I pour my soul into the people around me,
but they have no clue what to do with spirit.
Words grasp my every feeling, but there's no one around to hear it.
Oh poetry,
I wish you were here to tell my story with volume
in a way that moves the heart because I just can't seem to
I can't seem to move out of my head,
I try to lay down and sleep in my bed, drift somewhere else
and calm the unsaid
But life keeps me awake, pushing me so close I feel I could break.
Oh poetry,
Sleep for me.
Dream for me.
Please tell me that you're here for me.

The universe had flattened into a thin sheet,
And the black sea of destiny unfurled from the movements we made.
Your eyes penetrated through mine, ever so sweet.
While the galaxies rumbled in a plangent parade.
Your body touched mine.
The universe a vacuum; a canvas for our passion.
I felt divine,
The spiral of the planets dash in.
My breathe was short as you felt your way, urging close to bliss.
I bit my lip so hard it bled.
I lunged at the chance to capture this.
Your hands held my hair above my head.
Oh, the power to touch a star in bed.

Your life (just like everyone elses's) is like eating a bad peach.
You bite into the blushing fruit dressed in the colors of a beginning sunset expecting it to taste, well, rather peachey
But by some mistake you were handed the wrong peach (and sometimes even the wrong fruit) off of the wrong branch on the wrong tree way off in the wrong hypothetical galaxy given to you by the wrong proverbial god (I.E. The Grim Reaper instead of Perstephanie, who, consequently, grows very bad peaches as you can imagine).
So here you are eating this mushy fruit bruised by the process in which it came to you, and it is slowly becoming the quintessence of your life. Your very heart assuming the form of a pit.
With each wince you make and each swallow you take, the terrible peach you are eating disappears. It's sole purpose to be a bad peach eaten by you, another "bad peach" waiting to be eaten by another wrong person at the wrong time in exactly the wrong place.
The entire existence of humanity rests upon these wrong actions and bad fruit. When asked, "What is the purpose of this life?"
In a despondent tone, one is to respond with: "None at all."