When I was 5
I wrote poems on printed sheets I would get at day care
about apples and leaves
and whatever inanimate object was within my vision
and I had to make sure every line rhymed
Or it wasn't real poetry
When I was 9
I wrote poems on loose leaf paper
but only for school
because I hated writing
because I thought I wasn't any good at it
That it wasn't real poetry
When I was 12
I wrote poems on the backs of my worksheets
but only when no one else was looking
because I didn't want anyone else to see
because even though I thought my writing was good
I was afraid that no one else would
That it wasn't real poetry
When I was 15
I wrote poems on my arms
with the sharpest object I could find
because my words didn't matter anymore
only what I felt
so I would feel in free verse
Until my words blended red
But that wasn't real poetry
Was it?

The moon shines a cool blue tonight
as we entwine our fingers, laying on the baseball field
beneath diamond heavens. We lie
in silence, in the moments when the Universe reveals
itself, and contemplate the distances between one celestial body to
another, the space between
us growing as I turn south
to find Orion while you seek Cassiopeia in the north.

Shooting stars cross the sky, and we wish separately on dead
stars and dead dreams, lights already grown red and extinguished
as we whisper in the dark, passing
between phases.

And in the end we're all left searching.

And I had to walk away
I was just hoping at least he noticed I didn't run

As a life enters the world, a new song begins. A song filled with passion, and beauty, a song graced with an elegance that can never be mimicked.
  A song, perhaps sang in vain,  it's  beauty created only to fade in time, only ever appreciated by the soul who performed it, A melody as tragic as it is beautiful, a work of art that can never truly be appreciated by another, fated to be forgotten in time.

Awoken from a dream that never ends, aware of the lies that disguise the worth of mortal lives. Taught to mimic what's seen without ever knowing what it means, I watch the masses shift between souls with free will, and machines with a set of programmed commands.
Robots on a conveyer belt, the world is spinning we are all trying to hold on to our sanity. Humanity individuality, what makes us different is slipping this constant need to be different. Is what makes us the same.