my thoughts drift like ships in the night, looking for light on a rough path.
my eyes wade just below, looking for thoughts to guide them back home.
my nose breathes everything in for retrospection on experience.
my lips scream for help as I kiss the cold water; all is panicked.
after all, this wouldn't be a problem if I wouldn't have jumped, but the darkness just seemed so different and I wanted to grasp it.

(j.a.r.)

Is it just me, or do you ever look at yourself in the mirror and pull at pieces of skin you wish weren’t there? do you claw at the marked up places, or beat the aching bones? do you ever just look at someone else, and take in their completion, wishing that you were them, facing a mirror? dozens of loose ends, and with a curvy smile, you're forced to tell yourself you're willing to wait for a confidence more valuable than any tear shed. why are we expected to work 100x harder than them? I know no one is the same, but what determines how were different? why do I always want something I don’t have, and push away everything I do? who in this world  even came up with the definition of beauty? as if life is only permissible to those who have things figured out throughly. truly that’s just unfair to make someone who’s flaws aren’t accepted, follow a path that is redirected in a circle that is infected with a never ending journey of hatred towards themselves. collecting baggage from the world that sticks like dust on the highest shelf of a book case filled with books of truth, rarely read. all they ever had to do was open one up and realize that to their surprise they are more than what they’ve been memorized with all these years. they're somethings beyond the humans eyes of beauty, and all it really took to see that was a key to a loose lock. just one knock will do. open the door, and find out more of your true self. find out the truth about the remarkable beauty you hold within.

(j.a.r.)

You've always been one step ahead of me,
and it seems you walk around like you own every passing street.
You talk like fear is a distant memory...
well, if that's so, then why so discrete to me?

I once knew this wonder boy..
who could flip the whole world around with his smile.
His laugh was pure joy, the kind that makes you wish it could last all the while.

Faded walls and daises blooming in the gardens,
somehow bring me back to you,
and all of the petals I plucked have kept me from discarding
the only reason I'm still loving you.

(j.a.r.)

I love the way a person can be spotted from the other side of the room without even trying.
It's like the earth breathing, wind beating against my windows as it's sighing.
They're just as all other things are,
outstanding without ever really standing out.
Yet they do.
Somehow they just caught your eye, and drew you in.
Like the stars in the nighttime blue, one standing out more than the other even if they all look exactly the same.
Since when did the pavement of dust and dirt decide to be walked upon?
Without, what would support?
That's the thing, it didn't, it couldn't.
It just is.
Just like they didn't choose to stand out, but they did.
Just like you don't feel like anyone sees you, or that anyone cares to admire you delicate face.
You are inspiring to someone without ever lifting a single finger,
and that can't be too bad honestly.
All you do is exist, and you mean the world to someone.
You complement everything without ever deciding to accessorize anything, and I guess that's just the way things are.

(j.a.r.)

what if we could grasp things in our hands..?
I don't mean plain, concrete items,
I mean what if we could grasp the memories, the changing of the seasons,
and the people we love into one little item?
how long could we contain it inside such a microscopic view of abstract
morals and views?
how about that titian leaf lying around in the pile near your door?
go and pick it up.
what do you feel, hear, smell, see, perhaps even taste in the moment?
I think that in that moment when our minds have come to a conclusive point about the values grasped into something so simple,

we can hold it.

(j.a.r.)

No one ever wants to read a poem other than one about love.
They’re only interested in thoughts from another that might just be about them.
I mean it’s pleasant if you happen to read a poem that relates to you, but don’t just click copy, save, or reblog.
Someone put their heart in to that poem; they shed tears and carved crevasses into their undoubting mind that everything is worth it.
They found their worth.
Some through words of love and transgression, and others through words of doubt, vexation, and sorrow.
They’ve been able to overcome themselves, and now it’s your turn to take the wheel.
Understand the words you want to say about the grass dancing in the wind, find the comparisons between yourself and the sun, and reach for the top of the clouds with the courage
of a self-spoken soul.
Not everything has to be about love, people just make it out to be.

(j.a.r.)

I guess the only way to describe it is that it feels like someone is climbing from the edge of your stomach, up your throat, trying to reach you lips.
Every thought you have ever thought about heads straight for
your gut, and tries to make its point understandable to others.
Sometimes the climber stumbles, causing rocks to fall back down, and leaving an terrible feeling in the lining.
Sometimes even he falls, and he burns in the acid of your uneasy abdomen.
But sooner or later, that climber will reach the top, and when he does, there's a certain spontaneity that falls over everyone.

(j.a.r.)

Picture this.
two dainty soles tip toeing down
an escalade of stares from the people
who built up your only soul you hold within.

Trying to
escape an escape
that truly never was  what it was sought out to be.

The pieces of temptation
slowly break grasp on your beautiful quintessence.
You are sewn together with bright rays of grace, and everyday
you take a step for yourself.

You shine exactly like you were born to, and oh my dear...*
even the sun is smitten at the sight of your grace..

(j.a.r.)

It's so cold out.
The wind blows like a kiss from the North.
All of the leaves are already dead now, along with my only hope for joy.
The kids rush along the sidewalks, bundled up in coats and what not.
Skin becomes dry and achy;
a relation forms between the layers of derma and a dehydrated human in the Sahara.
Both reach for something that's not there.
Survival is only attainable with certain steps and choices.
One mistake, and you're sure to end up lost.
Rain begins to fall more frequently now, and I can't help but fall in sync with every drop as I feel the ones beneath my cheeks.
It's Winter, and I've given up.

(j.a.r.)