You might think this is about you,
but I promise it's not.

My heart goes crazy,
explodes with a million butterflies
that carry me away
with those stupid phrases
said oh so often
but always feel oh so special.

You might think this is about you,
but I promise it's not.

Sunset paradise
that gleams in those eyes
and takes me on
the most lavish of vacations
in a single blink.

You might think this is about you,
but I promise it's not.

Skin-soft brush
against me
shoots electric through my fingertips
and jolts my heart,
leaving me dizzy,
wanting more.

You might think this is about you,
but I promise it's not.

Long afternoons spent
in conversation quicksand
"the less you struggle, the less you'll sink"
but no matter how still I stand,
I fall deeper,
understanding and accepting
that there is no escape from this.

You might think this is about you,

but I wish it wasn't.

I am afraid of what my hands may write
   I’m not sure why….
most likely something to do with not wanting to hurt anything innocent
   but I suppose we all fail at that endeavor.

Fragile, beautiful things come into our hands and we break them,
   not purposefully, desiring not to **** a lovely thing…
but we can’t seem to help it,
    can’t seem to help hurting people we love.

It ought to have been different, no one should be made to laugh at their own dreams…

I don’t want to write anymore; I want the peace of sleep.
   But I have to write…to keep my soul from dying, I have to write…..
but the only person I want to say anything to doesn’t hear me.
    No matter how absurd the situation appears,
the emotions that we feel are all we have that keeps us alive.

Oceans separate people from each other….
    oceans that even psychonauts are loath to attempt a crossing of.
Anyone who ever believed in anything knows this:
   things ought to have been different….

But people can’t think about things like this all time;
  people aren’t able to go through all of the ******* that encompasses modern life while contemplating the mysteries of human experience.
   And when things get too complicated we run away…

We fear what we don’t understand,
   and I am afraid of you.
No one had ever turned me inside out like you.
No one has ever managed to cut through the crap and shake me to the core….
   except you….

But there’s no time to focus on that,
  there’s no time to focus on one another when the whole world is imposing itself on you.
How can we possibly be expected to delve into people’s souls
  when our mortgage is due eh?

Why should we have to feel the need to love someone
while having to maintain one’s sanity in order to survive?
Since isn’t that what love is…a kind of insanity;
  the kind of insanity where one’s ego is completely swept away.

Freud never loved…
  never could form the concept of ego death
into a beautiful thing…

Certain things will never be spoken aloud by me,
  only written of….
because I too am enslaved against my will by fear of the unknown….