If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.

The distant, haunting trumpet sound
Peace came just like a dove
The fading of darkened clouds
Rescuing souls from war and blood.

No more we hear the country's call
We are heading home to those we love
No more we see our comrades fall
A welcomed hope from heaven above.

Those scars will never leave our minds
Here to stay and leaving their mark
Wounds they say will heal in time
How do we begin? Where do we start?

Very soon we'll be heading home
Away from those killing fields
To all our families and those we love
With beer, wine and home made meals.

The future will be much brighter
The past will stay in the past
No more fear of guns and the wounded
Just happy days will be here at last.

So let's march along with that trumpet sound
And let's salute to that peaceful dove
Say farewell to where wars abound
Let's celebrate a world of love.

dots, the zeroth dimension.
lines, the first dimension.
planes, the second dimension.
spaces, the third dimension.

add each dimension with itself,
you’ll get the next thing in line.
add two third dimensions together,
now what’s on your mind?

are there limits to the universe?
are we destined to understand all the complex wonders?
or is it just for the one who wanders
to turn the secrets into understandable verses?

I just hope,
someone would send me the envelope.

.
I have always known you
Stranger,
In this whirling tavern,
Where life is plasmic.

You speak with sweetest
Nothings,
In my groping, deaf ears,
Where sense is non.

And now we are laying
Hollow,
On this letted, fresh bed,
Without any clues.

Your are plain, beautiful
Stranger,
Your hands ply my soul,
As bees on dry flower.

"I can see my door, my bed, my window, my chair, and my table.

"I can feel my spine against the wall, my feet against the floor, my jaw tightly shut, and my fingernails buried in my arms.

"I can hear the wind coming in from the open window, my heartbeat rapidly thumping, and that familiar voice in my head, shouting once again.

"I can smell the dampness of the ground outside as the breeze carries it to my room, and the sickly sweet odor from the soap used on my hands.

"I can ******* blood spilling from the bite in my lip; my last harsh reminder that
        I
        am      
        still
        alive.