Its not that I am lazy
or even qualify as depressed, it is just
that everything tastes like cardboard
and I have forgotten how to cry.

Maybe you can forget to see in color,
and resign to politically correct,
where grey is the new black and white
and contrast was killed in the womb.

Society does have a thing
against the dead coming back to life,
or do they despise those they've buried reaching toward the light
I never got the story straight.

Even if its weird, I wish I had an outside
with a sun just of my own
so I can fight to give it's light to people that I like
instead of  having to pretend that everyone is perfect.

Maybe its that humans tend to go crazy
if there is no hero to their villain,
and the survival instinct could just disappear
if nothing tries to **** you.

I wouldn't say I am tired of living,
but I may be bored of being dead.

Its boring when real people are fake
it would be better for a story to have
fake people that are real
in timeline where the hero doesn't get the girl
but he gets a girl,
and the two teach each other
to become the couple,
not a couple.
not a story about being perfect
but a story of finding out how to be human brilliantly.
Its bad enough that we only learn extremes,
how not to do things
not how things could be done.
we could be trapped in the lines of fake
heroes and
a story might teach us to be real.

Five feet left from yesterday,
I think that's where Beauty died.
She didn't die from lack of anything
forensics says there was just
too many hands around her neck.

A thousand voices crying out
look at me,
"I  AM SAD"
aren't we all.
its that time, to be sad,
for loneliness
for a dark pit of violent apathy
with sides lubricated by ineptitude and blood
from scrapes from past attempts.
Its hard to climb out of that pit
sadness placed us in

with all the others.

so make a friend,
bandage up their scrapes and bruises
your clothes don't make much use
in a place where cold can't touch you
and light is not invented.

light up another person so they might light up you.

I am the average
of everyone around me,
a culmination of personalities
to create a person new.

Originality is as the ocean bottom,
seen from my surface
like a clear glass lake
and brought above the depths
by careful copying.

Each article makes up me,
an existence fragile,
changed by single moments
and tiny moving,
dust blown about a breeze.

As a scale tipping
life of mine,
is merely the summation
of motes resting
one on another,
by another,
with another.

Just so, each of us
is just the one
who passed after those before
and what we see
is because we are giants
on the shoulders
of giants.

You are a ridiculous woman
who makes me ponder the most...
innocuous of sentences for... anything
that might betray a semblance of something
deep beneath your simple surface.
I shouldn't like you.
At least I don't know why I do,
and there are so many reasons too.

Your freckles and chromatic shifting eyes,
telling me lies, I swear to you they are green...
Your voice and that smile with a dot to your lips
and the way you look to the world, wide open
yet

so brilliantly concealed.

The wisps of your hair, escaping from their tie
and how ***** your hands are, I know the creases
by sight; even those covered by paint.

Yet I have not felt them, clasped them in mine...
How fragile are you? You could break at my touch,
or run in fear at my boorishness.
You, such a beautiful flower, give me nothing but questions,
how can I pick you without plucking your stem,
Should I bring you water, do I block your sun?
I do not speak Flower...

So yet you elude me, without ever having moved.
While I fight to find the face past the flowers.
To find the heart of you,
the part of you that draws me in.
The reason that I like you.

why do they call it
making love

when love
makes us do all those things

They still exist;
Both literally and metaphorically.
Little girls *** trafficked,
Boys slave in sweat shops,
Buissnessman works a 60 hour week.
Everyone's got their own chains.
Some we put on freely,
Some are ****** upon us,
like maturity on an orphaned child
--Some are cut into our wrists.
With every lie,
With every curse,
With every slander,
Pain built up creates inside
these fine little links;
Alone they are weak, but together
UNBREAKABLE
27 million slaves in the world
But that's just an estimate.
When we look inwards
We see so. many. more.

White pages
stained and blemished
Once ******
now yellowed with age

Passionate words
blurred and faded
by tears
long since dried

Thin lines
holding memories
of kisses, soft touches
and pleading eyes

Paper treasures
Printed gems
Buried
by a sea of years

No one knows
why they are kept
locked away
in a cherished nook

Until they are held
by trembling hands
on lonely nights
when old hearts ache