I am supposed
to be doing my math homework

which currently lies
buried beneath
countless pages of poetry

because no algorithm can solve
the meaning of life

and no geometry proof
can prove love.

I am forever perplexed
By the idea that
I have only ever
Seen myself in mirrors.

Do I perceive myself
As others do?
Or have I created
An illusion of myself
All these years?

Maybe the world doesn't spin,
And it is the people
Who are constantly moving,
Trying to find something
They are still unsure of.

Be still and it shall come.

We are all flowers in this world,
Merely here to decorate the earth
Before God decides to pick us
For his bouquet of humanity.

Sometimes I feel
Like I'm fading,
Disappearing into an ocean
Of people like the
Translucent moon
In the daytime sky.

There is nothing like
A crisp morning
To remind you
That even after
The darkest night,
There is rebirth.

I have always been a writer.

When I was younger
I thought my ability to write
Was finite. I thought
My creativity would dry up
Like a pond in summer.

Now I realize the number
Of stories you write is not limited
To the number of pages you have
Or the amount of ink in your pen.

Creativity is the wind around us:
Although you can never really catch it:
You feel its presence on your skin
Even though it's not always present,
It's always certain to return.

I will always be a writer.

I am lost:
My mind scattered
In endless constellations above me.

As dreams infuse with reality
And thoughts diffuse into insanity
I realize:
To be insane is to see the infinite.

This majestic creature glides
As she takes to the skies.
Her mind works with an eagle’s ability,
While her heart is crafted with a sparrow’s humility.

She flies not with an eagle’s pride
For her hopes are not to own the sky;
But to share it with her accompaniers
Flying never in front but alongside her peers.

She sings not with a sparrow’s naivety:
Each day unbothered and indifferently,
For the purpose of this altruist’s life
Is to serve others through sacrifice.

Although she is fearless in her flight,
She does not soar far out of sight.
She stays close to the ground, not in fear of the skies,
But in awe of the water above which she flies.

And as she departs beyond the river bend,
Her wings command the day to end.
This Blue Crane floats away effortlessly
As the sun takes a bow into the depths of the sea.

One can write of anger, of fear
Of mystery or tears
But one must never write of love

Emotions at first, are a foggy mist
Swirling the depths of our minds,
Intangible, elusive, unlatched -
All we desire is a meaning attached

Through action or words
The mist escapes our souls
Turning to warm liquid
Slightly tangible
Before seeping through our knuckles
Slippery wet

However, you will find,
The most interesting form of emotions that exists
Is when they hit a writer’s page
Like crimson puddles of his blood
Turning from hot liquid life
To solid concrete print

One can write of anger, of fear
Of mystery or tears
But one must never write of love
For it is both a roaring beast
And foggy mist
Neither tangible or tameable
By the confinement of words

So my answer to the question
Of why I never write of love
Is: how can one write a poem about love
When love is a poem in itself?

Guilt is a grey and desolate shore,
Abandoned many years before,
And you’re sitting on the sand alone,
While the wind calls out with a dreary moan.

The warm sand below, your body does charm;
Holds you like an infant in a mother's arms.
Although the comfort is all but a lie,
You lay your head down and slowly close an eye.

Through the stormy high-tides you sleep;
And slowly but surely the waves begin to creep.
You do not feel the icy water lick your toes,
Nor when it devours you in your ignorant doze.

Until one day you no longer roam the misty beach;
The waves have grasped you in their callous reach.
Swallowing you whole, beyond horizons ahead;
In a sea of apologies that were left unsaid.