you made my pain your own and in turn I bled out so you could watch me
I was broken and I was typical
now you are broken and we are broken together
I do not know how to fix two broken pieces
but jagged edges have a knack for fitting together.
my ears are ringing and you are singing, singing to me
and I swear I will sing to you, I will heal you with my voice in all the ways I know how
there is nothing ordinary about the way I feel when you say my name
and I am home when you breathe your sweet breaths against my ear drum
we've created a home out of so many broken things
and as broken things tend to do, we have become one
we will become a whole, you and I
we will fill each other up and finish each other's thoughts
we will color in the blank spots and overflow the emptiness
you will be my rock and my hard place
and I will call you mind
we'll be okay

The joys of loving a beautiful singer pale in comparison with the joys of being with a beautiful boy who can twist another's words and create a sort of immense beauty, his inflection casting shadows on your heart that dance and play and set you on fire. You are so lucky to love that boy, because he is that genuine beauty we search so hard for in life. He is beauty in his darkest hours, in his tightest corners, in he drunken stupors. He is the moment when everything goes silent enough to hear your own heartbeat. He is the first drop that hits your head. He is the last drop that ends the storm. He is the breath you take to steady yourself in front of a crowd, the salt you squint out of your eyes after an afternoon swim, the introduction of your favorite book, the smile of a girl just complimented on her necklace, the cake at your father's 50th birthday. He is the beautiful things, all of the beautiful things that don't make a big deal of themselves. How do you possibly love this type of boy? How do you show him all of the beauty he portrays, the artwork he creates just by opening his eyes in the morning? This is all I can do. My words are weak. I am pale in comparison. Us lovers of beauty can only hope we get to experience it for as long as possible. We can only hang on for dear life.

one life weaves into another
through tiny tendrils
little feelers
microscopic chords
a touch on the waste
lips brushing forehead
a phone ring at three in the morning
all send another shooting connection from
body to body
reds, golds, purples, greens
until the two are connected by millions of invisible fibers
wrapping through the rib cages
crushing two souls together into one colorful mess
of dreams and thoughts
atoms and organs
two eventually wrap together into one
and on the worst days, crumple into each other
dependent on the ties that bind them
hoping they'll never break

sunlight hits the snowy ground with enough force to shatter it into a million fragments
crystals made to dance in the brilliant light of a typical sunny day
by simply doing its trivial job, thee sun awakens the snow and makes it jump for joy, filled with the greatest gift of warmth
if only the sun knew all that is does for the snowy day

bullets fly past his heart as he tackles the treacherous terrain.
he never saw himself in this position, not again, not now, not like this
he is faced with an overwhelming grief
he lies down and rolls over, he wraps his arms around his body, he clears his mind and forgets himself,
forgets the value of his purpose

he sees purple and gold
he sees roses in the garden
he sees laughing on the air
he gives up on battle and hatred and war and he is home

then gunshots pierce the air waves, drowning out the laughter
and purple turns to crimson
the roses in his garden are but lifeless bodies
he is back in battle

he stands and decides not to give up,
if only for now
and although he's seen this before,
he's been in battle countless times and sworn he couldn't survive it again
although he feels broken
he decides to keep going
he knows this time is different
no two battles are the same
every bullet is shot by a brand new soul

he is hopeful
again

the politician shakes his fist at the sky
drowning out all voices
winning at all costs

the artist wiggles his brush at humanity
talking down the politicians
preaching open acceptance

the writer flaunts his pen at the paper
desregarding life outside
conversing with his own thoughts

I put my hands in my lap
winning nothing
preaching nothing
conversing with nothing

who is the winner?

constellations are born from everything you touch
from the tips of your fingers, stars
you don't know how much you do
but I do
and it's time you opened your eyes
to your influence