In a world of reality and concrete,
We exist in opposition.
While you reside in the physical and tangible,
I resonate in the mystical.  
Our realms do not meet.

If I could alter my position in the stars,
For you I would.
I'd skew the right angle at which we sit
So we could finally see eye-to-eye.

I would be the flames for your airy aura to feed.  

If I could-
I would..

If I could still write poetry-

I'd write about how you betrayed me.
I'd make it a lyrical nursery
That gently cradled all my insecurities.

They'd bounce around from wave to wave,

Like an ominous symphony.
Synomous to love,
yet fueled by defeat.

If I could still write poetry.

I'd write about being second best,
I'd write about loosing you, and
Above all else- loosing rest.

If I could somehow still write-

Maybe this feeling would flee.
Perhaps then I could show you.
Perhaps then you could see.

Sometimes I like to stare in the mirror.
Not because of vanity.
Not because of conceit.
Purely to see my own energy.
To look straight into my own soul.
My reflection releases me,
Reminds me this is just temporary.
I love to look at myself,
And notice something new everyday.
The days pass and I change.
I grow.
Not up or down.
But sideways.
And around.
I reflect on the past.
And even the future too.
I look in the mirror and I see.
I see.

I was told to never fall in love with a writer.
But, a writer that recites his work with his hands is ten times more dangerous.
Eventually, you'll find yourself immensely fascinated by the veins that can play keys oh-so softly; soft enough to cradle an infant,
or even the aggressive way he fills your entire childhood bedroom with such impossible power and passion
in a single chord.
But, these hands are dangerous.
Just as they can hammer into the piano, his hands can rip through your heart. His hands will never just play your body simply black and white, oh no.
His hands will destroy you; each and every muscle movement will have you on edge and by the time the decrescendo drains the flood in your mind, it will be too late.

Sometimes
I feel really small
Like I'm an ant walking among bears
As if I don't have a voice or matter at all
Sometimes
I feel ugly
Because there's always someone better next to me
There's always something else in somebody else

Ugh...

And sometimes
Sometimes I want to disappear
Never look back
Never come back
Like I'm a boat with no anchor
Ready to sail the world
But somehow I forgot where the ocean begins
And ended up walking alone
Through this empty road leading to nowhere

And I am lost again...

As I stare at the moon
I wonder if we see the same sky
The stars off in the distance
Are you looking at the same one as I
The constellations tell a story
Though might not be well known
To look for the northern star
As a way to guide oneself home
I'd like to believe this home
Is somewhere with you and I
But I guess all home will ever be
Is us beneath this sky