I just can't think.
Thinking never was a good point of mine,
Thinking takes time, and time is precious,
Thinking can drain the soul of life.

Scholars think, and hope to be quoted,
Foolish men who think they're wise,
And what about our heroes,
Lucky for us, and them,
That they did not have time to think.

Thinking causes all kinds of ailments,
Like rules, regulations, and penalties of such,
I tried to sit and think one day,
And a man said "get of my grass."

Presidents think, and so do their generals,
Perhaps they think "I'm bored, lets have a war,"
Perhaps they think too much,
And think they know what I'm thinking.

I'm not saying that thinking is bad,
1 just can't think,
Perhaps I like to sit and not think better than 1 like to
sit and think,
What do you think?

I am not my glory;
I am not my false reality.
I am not my story;
I am not my personality.
I am not my past;
I am not my hurt;
I am not the last;
And I am not the first.

I AM, and that is enough.

I accept what is.
I understand this moment.
I love this moment.
And for this I am ever grateful.

My life is incredible.
The journey, so sweet;
My adventure, inevitable,
The path, unique.

The time is right now.
I can find my success.
I still don't know how;
But that's part of the test...

To believe in beauty,
Even when I fail to see it;
For in this act,
I become the Love I needed.

Bitter cacophony, a swarm of raucous screeches
scratching against the infinite sides
of the sleeping labyrinth
desperate to be heard, to be known.
Climbing upon one another
using ladders made of lies.
Locust-like in movement
unite and disperse in detestable symphony
lazy and hollow
harrowing torment.
Shut away in a little box
and scattered amongst the open
universe of the ethereal untouched.
Never to be noticed.

I remember at the party
as blurry as it all was
when you kissed me through my tears
and startled me
I was angry
angry because I took the blame
for the tickets we all received
and you kissed me
I was too blinded by *** to see how romantic
and how sweet your gesture of sympathy
really was, objectively;
internally I was not ready, for reasons
unclear even to myself
(to sum,
I was young and dumb
and frightened of affection)
but even now, a year or two later
I think about your eyes, sparkling
and wired, intimidating and intriguing;
I think about your posture, your wit,
your cyclist thighs,
and wonder why I didn’t think
you were a catch of a guy

He's nervous to meet me, he must be.
It's been twenty-one years.
Twenty-one years absent from the beat of my heart where his blood runs through-
I let him enter intravenously,
Because God told me to.