I am that of a kicked puppy— bashed over the head many times,
before I come crawling back.
Back for that affection I seek, for that love I so desperately desire, only to see that they will never reciprocate.
But each time I hold that small, twitchy ember in my quivering hands, that little hope, that maybe,— just maybe, I’ll get something in return.
A crumb, or perhaps a pat on the head.
I starve for slop.
And hunt as the prey.

Art is dying.
Intellectualism is dying.
They would rather have AI write hundreds of years of evolution into a single sentence.
A warped piece of ‘art’ with no soul behind it.
They would rather have AI create pictures, scenes, ideas— that it otherwise would never understand itself.
We are losing what it means to be human.
Turning into soulless, confused beings— stumbling toward a future that— this time, we cannot predict.
It is wholly unprecedented.
We can only hope upon the goodness in our hearts that we remain somewhat humane.
Just enough humanity to care for one another in these trying times.
Because being human, is art.
It is the one thing that we can say we’ve created with our own hands, our own souls— minds.
Seldom to ourself, and no one else.

I wish we could all be on the same exact page.
The same number, letter, punctuation.
The same whisper of breath that ascertains we understand one another.
That we can smile, breathe out in relief to know that we’re not all on different pages.
That we’re reading the same passage, with the same words, convictions, hopes and beliefs; all strung into one, confident, binding.
Glued together by wisdom and hardship.
That this book of credence isn’t furiously burning, shrouded contemplation, that we acknowledge it— this life, in unity.
That we can all maintain the fact that this world should be brought together by peace— not inhumanity and decimation.

Staring at him is a pastime.
The slightest lines around his lips, proclaiming that smiles weren’t impervious to him.
The way sunlight danced around with rays of happiness on his golden, golden, golden hair.
His brows, relaxed— never pulled taught like the trigger of a gun.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5 fingers wrapped around my mind.
His breath— steady, warm.
Brushing against my skin with whispers of everlasting love.
Counting his individual lashes separately.
Several glints in his deep eyes, myself reflected within.
Two forests hidden by glass cages we call eyes.
I’d like, I think, to see the world through his perspective.