It started with a kiss
Hand in sand
He swept me into the mist
That wasn't the plan

The music rang through both our ears

Playing & playing
Delaying, delaying.

What was this
Not dominance
But a mutual self-inflicted full oneness
Acting out not a doubt
Gain some control
While the body suffices & one feels whole.

Wholeness or numbness one will never know

Whilst playing & playing
Delaying, delaying

The inevitable

Perception is a strange phenomena.
Our thoughts.
Feelings.
Ideas.
Interpretations.
They are all determined by us.
I'm not sure exactly what causes someone's sense of perception to be warped.
All I know is mine seems to be so.
Some have stated they believe me to be an intelligent articulate individual.
However when it comes to common perceptual sense, I have none.

How does one train their perception?
Is anyone really in control of the way they interpret?
Lost.
Continually lost.
Taken the wrong way.
Offending those without realising.
Socially inept.
Yet still possessing the empathy and ability to connect with all kinds of people.
Is there a simple solution to figuring myself out?
Or am I simply on a wild monkey hunt with no end in sight?

I am me.
I dislike blonde men with ****** hair.
However, I like Kurt Cobain from nirvana.
I also like allowing the rain to wash over me once in a while.
I have experienced pain.
Also heartbreak.
I thought I knew love.
I also thought I knew myself.
This I am attempting to figure out.
Depression.
It's real.
I felt it hit my soul.
I over achieve in most things I attempt.
Yet nothing is ever good enough.
No amount of external praise lifts my spirits.
Internal praise does not exist.
I consider myself bold.
Honest.
Blunt even.
I also consider myself mental.
Ugly.
Impatient.
These are a few of what makes me who I am.
Who would I be without the name I was designated?
Would the previous words define me?

Wild flowers in her soul, she refuses to trim them or let them show.
Moonlight seeping from her pores she holds the ability of being able to light up the darkest of nights.
She shines her light on all other gardens as an attempt to teach them the way to self-blossom.
Although not always successful with this transfer of energy she sometimes finds herself on the dark side of the moon; of herself.
To the darkness there is also depth, and without this depth she would be unable to share her strength through her glow.
This depth consists of all the weeds she has had to grow through and amongst, all the while encouraging them too to blossom.
This moon continues to shine, even when she herself is feeling blue, for what is the night without her?

We lay in the bed
My red singlet was all that was between the warmth of our skin
It had white polka dots on it
Do you remember?
The scent of you in the bedding was like heaven to my mind
I was in the place I had dreamt of being time and time again
This was it
This was real
We could finally be
I had began to doubt that love could ever be between two souls so incredibly lost
I felt the roughness of your hand slide over my abdomen
I so badly wanted to take that hand to places I'd never had hands before
We didn't know what love was
Having not been taught by those supposedly near
Confusion
****** anguish
Fear
I knew you were afraid
I could feel the fear you held
It was based around being afraid of hurting me
I only wonder now
Had you hurt someone before?
Or was it you who was hurt?
Within your soul the pain was evident
I didn't sleep a wink that night
I didn't want to miss a moment of your arms around me
Your warmth against me at last
The safety and security I had been without was finally within
It was love
My first love
I miss that
I know what I miss is more than an idea
More than a perception
I wonder if you miss that too.

It's not your back that hurts, but the burden.

It's not your eyes that hurt, but injustice.

It's not your head that hurts, it's your thoughts.

Not the throat, but what you don't express or say with anger.

Not the stomach that hurts, but what the soul does not digest.

It's not the liver that hurts, it's the anger.

It's not your heart that hurts, but love.

And it is love itself that contains the most powerful medicine.

- Unknown Author