And nothing comes easy anymore.
No words in my mind can form into sentences,
Just as the victim struggles with her words as the man dressed in black holds a knife to her throat.
She knows what to say, but she just can't stop the image of her head falling off her body from playing in her mind.
so with this thought I decide to check the time
Only to see that it is limited
and I can't formulate my thoughts into readable words.
I want the word to understand the beauty inside my mind,
Before this man decides to dig his blade into my skin and end my life.
I can see humanity suffocating under the hand of technology,
With nothing to save us but our minds,
But our minds are flooded with misery.
So will we be saved or is this damage already too thick?
Is it time to be content with this lack of air,
Or should I request to have my throat slit open
To make up for it?

Your hands are on my mind
The way they move and
The way they stay fixated on my spine.
The way they make motions and gestures,
Use utensils and cause pleasure,
They are one of a kind.

Your eyes are on my mind
The way the see the world and
The way they can see into mine.
The way they flicker back and forth
And look directly on the floor
In moments of discomfort,
They are one of a kind.

Your laugh is on my mind
The way it engulfs the room and
The way it stops time.
The way it is so genuine and nice.
It is one of a kind.

You are on my mind
The way you haunt my thoughts and
Make everything seem fine.
The way you pull me in and let me go
Like there's something to say or maybe
Just something I should know.
You are one of a kind.

Life is so subjective
And original
No two people see the same
World around us
No one will ever understand
The darkness of a whisper
The bright light of my mother
Or the color of her voice
Or the song that plays in my head
Every time I drive by that place
Or why my eyes glance over
Every time I pass her house
Or his
Or hers
No one knows the colors
I see when I close my eyes
Or the fact that certain things
Prevent me from opening them
If life is a riddle
Coated in layers of confusion and dust
How should we ever figure it out?
Because know one knows the meaning
Behind anything we see
Hear
Or taste
Or how each letter and number
Have a different color to me
No one knows why
I chose to write the way I do
Or why I even make art in the first place
I just kind of do
No one will even know
The meaning behind my words
But that's just the beauty of life
I had to learn.

My hands grasp onto unsure objects
Fighting the past and barely handling the future
And I feel sick.
I feel sick each day
Each morning
Each evening
Each conversation
Each cigarette.
I cannot digest this,
Nor can I digest the food on my plate,
Or the information thrown at me each day.
I am lethargic and boring,
Lame and confused,
Tired and constant,
There is no change.
I fear routine but
Also fear change
I am fickle.
I am boring I am selfless
I am selfish I am sure
I am distant
I am clingy
Like the shore.
I pull you in when I need you
Push you away when I don't
Cry when I am uncomfortable
And turn dark and I am cold.
I grasp onto unsure things,
Hoping I will gain control.
Control is not in my control;
However,
I will try and grasp onto these feelings,
Write about it and wither in self pity
Only to realize
I can only control the words
Escaping my chapped lips.

You are essential
Like water that needs to hydrate dry bodies
And nourish growing trees.
I need you like the earth needs the sun
And how the moon needs the earth
And how humanity needs oxygen.
I thirst for you
Like a carnivore thirsts for blood
Or how she thirsts for pulls
Of cheap ***** on Monday nights.
You are the droplet of water running down the car window
As I look outside I barely see you
For I am mesmerized by the lights and the charisma
Of night.
Eventually as the sun begins to rise,
Waking the earth with her essential light
I notice you resting on the window.
My hands are very dry,
So I roll down the window
And rest my hand outside
Feeling the cool drops of you
Quench my need for love
That I feel I'll never fully
Receive.

You're getting to know the back of my hand
While I'm getting to know the shape of my heart
As it violently presses against my sternum in a uniform timing.
It is dark, but I know your eyes are glancing down at my pale hand,
Flushed pink with the cold,
icy wind that angrily rushes through the window to our right.
No one has ever shown this much interest in my hand before,
And I know that sounds strange,
But it is comforting to know that someone other than me can appreciate such things.
I am an artist, and my hands are my gateway to the world,
They are the messenger,
The communicator,
And without them I'd be lost.
Hands tell stories,
They create,
They destroy,
But they can make beautiful things.
So let's make something beautiful and destroy it.

You told me we were a movie,
But we were more than a 2 hour scripted piece of art.
I remember the willow trees and how they'd weep over us when we felt like weeping, too.
I remember the sunsets and how they came around 7:30 pm,
Now the fickle sun sets at 4 pm.
I remember the girl who told us we were beautiful,
In her own way
she was a sign of the great perhaps before us.
I remember desperately wanting to kiss you,
Even though I reserved those moments for the late nights we were intoxicated
when you somehow made your way into my arms every time
And how our lips would accidentally brush against each other,
softly,
And innocently.
I can't help but realize that you must have known how I felt
And how much I wanted to hold you.
Or how when you rested your head on my shoulder that one morning,
You definitely could hear my heart skip a beat.
So maybe if you're right, and if this is a movie,
You've chosen to end it.
Or maybe you've decided your character has moved on,
Leaving me alone under the shade of the willow trees
With my cigarettes and 4 pm sunsets.

The end