we're hidden
we hide and confide in our own mirror image
our own pride spies on lies that sorrow has woven
or is that also forbidden?
we can't feel or we'll be felt for
and feelings only feel fine when you don't cross the line
drawn with two left hands, because one left and one right is a sign
that you are alone in a room with everyone there
then time stops
and you feel
then it resumes
and you don't
it's quite simple really
the reality is when we really feel real reality, a feeling of love and tranquility, we feel it was only felt by
deep narrow slits in our brains love capacity, and it has the tenacity to wrap us in dreams that see
what we WISH we could see even if we see it right in front of us
it doesn't exist really
because reality only exists badly right?
"then reality struck" a saying stating tragedy struck
"it was like a dream" meaning memories were made and you relive them every night before sailing away
and never coming back to dock
but you wake up anyways
well I've dreamt tradgedy, and really had reality in my arms while sailing away
dreams are just reality with an emphasis on possibilty
and reality is just a dream that you never have to wish would actually happen
so i hope reality strikes tomorrow, and it isn't like a dream even though it seems that way

reading messages from January
how great we were
in all our young glory

now look at us
we're like an old book
which has been
collecting dust

a fairytale
which ended
with a twist
when a
tragedy
struck
and the lover
was killed off

My life is like sand,
kinda nice,
kinda irritating,
and very quickly slipping through my fingers.

I didn't care.
Maybe I did, but not enough to cry.
I heard the words, "he's dead"
But I felt no death.
The day I screamed in pain but with no tears in my eyes, they thought I was joking.
I threw my computer because I couldn't think of anything to write.
I snapped my pencil because I couldn't draw as well as they could.
I screamed out, but with no voice they thought I was yawning.  
I didn't care.
Maybe I did but not enough to scream I love you.
I heard the words "She's gone" and I ran.
They thought I didn't care but truth is I cared so much I didn't know what else to do.
My heart aches because of a disorder I have no control over.
I didn't care.
Maybe I did,
But when I heard the words "I love you" I had no clue what that meant.
I run down the street not only to get exorcise,
But in hopes that if I run far enough I'll run away from myself.
When they spit in my hair, and threw a cheap shot, I went home crying but nothing could be done.
I screamed out in pain but they didn't get it.
I said, I didn't care.
But just maybe, I did.

An abandoned room with a desk full of papers,

A burial site of a teenage unrequited love story.

The dried up pens retired from long hours of cheap labor,

The waste basket choked on raw emotional infatuation.

Cracked, broken picture frames lie helplessly on the floor,

A thousand words without complete sentences.

The light bulb revoked the spotlight on the show,

The stage crew gave up on cutting out paper butterflies.

The microphone, still turned on, awaits for a solo,

Tapping for an approval initiates a spark of interest.

"Testing, testing, testing."

The breath of a hopeless romantic heaves a sigh of relief.

"I'm back, everyone," I announce.

"Embrace the love wounds because I am free."

Mother birds throw up there food to feed their young, who am i trying to feed when I empty myself?

Statistics say
I am smarter than 95% of the people I meet
People say
Intelligence is overrated
Statistics say
I was born into a better situation than 98% of the people I meet
People say
It's not where you start it's where you finish
Statistics say
I will live longer than 94% of the people I meet
People say
Life is fragile
Statistics say
I won't fail
People say
I might

Estimate tells us the avg. height
of a female in the U.S. is 64 inches.
This is quantitative. Unfeeling of prospect,
the numbers fascinate and baffle.

Recent estimation supposes
1500 active volcanoes on the earth of which
500 have erupted since history,
the invention of writing.

                                                       ­                Such a short time ago.

Measuring in quantities, the earth is
4.5-4.6 billion years old.
Creatures of like sentience who never wrote about
volcanoes, the age of their earth.

Quantities hum of something borrowed.
So tight-wound, so deeply close, and yet still.

                                                         ­               Something not ours.
                                                                        Blind, free of invention.