"I know I had a plan... what was it?"

"See, this is why I don't have plans;
I kept forgetting all my plans!
One day I thought:
'I know I was gunna do something significant with my life, but **** it.
Art.'"

Correctly speaking...

We do not call an animal "it".

We do not call a baby "it".

We do not call he or she "it."

We do not call ourselves "it."

And what is most strangely odd to me, is that...
"correctly" speaking:

We do not call [G/g]od "it".

--

We call [G/god] "he".

He.

When we absolutely know what "he" means in the English language;
it means that the object being represented by the word is in fact, a male.

But even to call [G/god] "she" would not satisfy the feminist in me.
For "she" would refer to [G/god] as a female, of course.

How are we to identify someone or something to contain a *** and gender,
when we have no evidence or implications whatsoever of this speculation?

The Bible states He, His, and Him, repeatedly, no doubt,
but this lack of reference was the only known outlet to Scribes.

The capitalization [G], as to give [G/god] a name -- humanization & personalization,
but this is more of a veil to shield our own humane needs,
because in observation, it appears that this given Name
was given to help our immediate understanding of the subject;
an identifier.

Of course, everything should have an identity;
that is what a noun is, after all.

If it has a voice, and words, and advice,
it must be a person.. We say.
If it can teach and listen and punish,
it must be a species, a being.

Well, indeed, it is. But not in the way you and I  
normally think of this notion.

And should [G/god] be a proper noun? Well, of course..
It is almighty!
(Notice the "it".)

So, God.

Just like other proper nouns, it is the name of a name within a name.
Ocelot, for example, is a cat within the noun "cat".

BUT

God stands alone... It is no noun within a noun.

Or is IT?

"God is a chariot" -- stated many places. "He flows throughout all, within all."
(There's that "he" again..)

It is true! God is a chariot!
God is in me, and in you;
it is in everything;
it makes everything;
it breaks everything;
it is.

You are,
for it flows in you and is a part of you.
And if you exude this piece of your soul,
it will be obvious that God is no he, nor a she,
but it is something inside, waiting to be shown.

It is something to be seen physically-- through action and care--through art and stare.
Anything imaginable, God is in it,
which if I look back at this text and think correctly, you are in it.

You are everything,
because you are a part of everything,
because you ARE God;
You are the creator of your world,
and the eyes of how you see it;
As am I.
So start acting like it,
because everything is an extension of your inner-self.

This is a thing that should not be looked over,
and should not be considered above you,
although it is a higher power,
it is a power within you, that you can achieve.
Nothing worth achieving is low;
you must rise up.

Be godly.

Don't worry.

I'm here to tell you what you need to hear.
And it's not what you thought you would hear,
And it might not be what you deserve to hear.

Don't worry, it's me.
You don't know me well, but
You should know that I am kind.
I am gentle, and I think about you in that fashion.
My thoughts are not barbed wire,
Nor clear sky.

When I think of you, I think this:

You are foolish.
But so was I,
For years
For the same reasons as you.

And nothing can judge you
But the years,
And the years are nothing if not judgment's mirror.

Lonely years.
I would write poems of hate.
I tattooed my life onto the skin of so many notebooks.
Letters only exist on paper--
How badly I wished my depressing poems would be emblazoned proudly on my soul for all to read.
How cold I felt when I realized nobody wanted to get close enough to see them.

The only tattoos my mind bore
Were freezing outlines of emotions
None of which could burn hot enough to melt the ice they were etched into.

Then something magical:
Neurons. Synapses.
I realized that my mind is not a metaphor.
My mind is not a tangled mess of hyperboles and adjectives.

My mind is not poetry, and life is not scripted.
Nobody's brain is made of prose,
Much as some would like to believe.
Depression is not more noble because it is written well.
And if you have written it, believe me when I say that the way it flows when it is read aloud makes no difference either.

Do you understand?
Here it is, simply:
Step back if you find yourself a step too far into the world of the over dramatized.
Burn your depressed poetry.
It serves no purpose but to remind you of the state you are in.
It dwells in your long-gone years without thought of any future unless that future is your past relived until your future's end.

Poetry is not a coping method.
Poetry is an excuse to linger,
And "coping" is a very poetic way to euphemise that fact.
I have found this out the wrong way.
Poetry is as addictive as alcohol, as drugs, as depression.
They all go together well.
And they don't like to let go once they've started to hold hands.

What I'm saying isn't "stop writing."
What I'm saying is that if poetry is an excuse to linger, you have a choice.
What i'm saying is I hope you choose to linger on joy before you dwell in sorrow.
Because the longer you stay somewhere,
The more it feels like home.


Try to grasp the idea of just stopping,
Letting every idea go
And leaving.
And not coming back for a long time.
And doing it right now.

Realize:
1. The longer you stay sealed inside your mind, the longer you'll have to live with only words as company.
2. Words make terrible company when they're written in sadness.
3. The stars don't give a **** about words anyway.

Be like the stars.

Be with your friends. Make yourself laugh. It'll be hard at first. Then it will be easier. Then other people will be able to make you laugh too.



And one last thing to you specifically,
To you, the person reading this,
The person wondering silently,
The person I've been writing to this whole time--

Realize:
I don't know you.
But I love you.

This is not a joke or a ploy.

I love you.

Somewhere out there, there is somebody that loves you, and it is me and I am not afraid of it.
Find me,
And I will love you openly.
Because if you have the strength to find someone you don't know, you have the strength to find yourself too.
And then you won't need a stranger's love anyway.

You're the light
In a sea of reeds.
Salt clinging to hair
Bubbles kissing eyelids.
You're the grains in my toes,
Crashing euphoria.
A wave
Returning when the moon calls the tides.
You're a feather
Without a reason to fly
Or bird to pay homage.
Skin of a seal
Sliding peacefully;
secrets of past storms
leaving bellies weathered.
You're the mender of flesh
Torn on tiny pebbles.
Each budding heart
Back to the sea,
To mend in the only arms
Guaranteed to remember my name.

My mind is a garden;
Overgrown,
Blooming far to much for my own good.
Every August a flower appears to shower me with water,
Touch a petal to my cheek,
And wilt away
As each
"I love you"
Turns frail in my fingertips.
A red rose grew
Ridden with thorns;
I couldn't hold on long
Without bleeding.
Garden filled with weeds
petals blocking sun,
Impossible to breathe.
Red as fire,
Borne of blood
Dew turned to rain
Until I couldn't tell tears
From flood.
I loved you still.
Winter came and nipped your neck
But you grew
Into someone else's garden.
And on valentines day,
You made her eyes like daisies.

Any institution
which squelches questions
oughtn't be trusted,
methinks.