"It's awfully hard to lead when your veins are full of lead,"
I said.
"At least, that's what I've read."

"You read too much then," she said,
then dove off the deep end like some kind of bird.  

I'm having trouble with compiling a digest of everything I've ever heard.
Which is to say, I find it all hard to digest.

Converse with one to get some kind of outlook,
only to desert those notions for the exact converse.

The answer's buried somewhere in a desert, underneath a billion minute grains of other answers,
but the words still flow like leaves in water,
and every minute of it just leaves me feeling number.

If luck be a lady, then I've got her number,
but who be the drawer?
And which drawer did I file it under?

The thing about life is I don’t think there’s just one overlaying statement for all of humanity
We ask “Why?” but I don’t think we realize that, truly, out of nearly 7.4 billion people, there cannot possibly be an answer as to why we all exist. There cannot be one simple statement to define the reason as to why every single person of this race, our race, exists, because everyone has a different reason for it.
Or maybe that’s the answer
Maybe the answer to “Why?” is “Because there are 7.4 billion different reasons.”
Maybe it’s just that everyone has their own answer to why.
I remember I used to think that the reason we all existed was because the only other option was to not exist. But I think it’s not that simple, modern humans aren’t so primitive and instinctual anymore, our sixth sense has been forgotten somewhere, dormant in our genes, our very DNA.
The most modern **** species, **** sapien sapien, is a far more mentally evolved being from the first **** species. And because of that, our reasoning for living has evolved with us. There are, indeed, 7.4 billion answers to “Why?”, but I think that’s the overall answer for our species.
“Why?” “There are 7.4 billion reasons. Mine is __.”
Nonetheless, life is a beautiful thing. Find your reason.
And, maybe, just maybe, make it something a little more than existing just because the only other option is not existing.
:;,

In the dead of night I yearn for you,
Reader.

For your connection,
And the belief that you are someone,
And I am someone,
And that there is significance enshrined in our exchange.

I am made small by the vastness of this immense world.
7 billion souls, and I am but a diminutive voice in the crowd.

I hope that you hear my voice,
As I hear yours.

I hope that we might discourse,
You and I.

And I hope that,
Perhaps,
We might impact some souls outside our circle.

To think otherwise is too much to bear.
I cannot carry a cross of anonymity,
A cross of insignificance.

I must voice my thoughts,
And hope they are heard.

Because if a poet writes and has no reader,
Did the poet write at all?

So here is to you, dear reader.

This,
My shameless plug for your continued loyalty--

Without you, I am not me.

I have reduced your readership to mere pity,
You see.

Still I must ask--
Read me.

Dear Mr. Cupid,

I hope you are well. Please forgive this letter’s intrusion. I know you are busy, preparing your bow, and planning this season’s collusions. I’ll remind you though Sir, of the issue I had with the last year’s arrow consignment. Your aim was amiss, and I’d be remiss if I failed to seek your reassignment. I’d like somebody new to deliver my true - love for which I have been waiting. For it has been so long since my wife ran along, and everyone says that I should be dating. So please, if you would send somebody good to shoot Love's arrow at me. Thank you in advance for forgoing this dance.

Sincerely,
Mr. Oso Lonely

I always circumvent
The strings of fate
The wheels of time
Our mine to spin
To begin turning
Again and again
Twist the ties that bind
Because my life
Will always be mine
Because I will always find
A way to turn a negative
Into to a positive
Life is ten percent
What happens to me
And ninety percent
How I react
How I adapt
That is the only
Matter of fact

It's true, I think,
That sometimes I don't know what to think.

I toss and turn and roll all about,
Living without living,
Doing without meaning,
Accidentally planting soft seeds of doubt.

I think in Solitude
I become more confused.

I write without knowing what these words say,
Or what they will mean to you,

Dear,
Faithful,
Compassionate,

Reader.

This is such a selfish exercise,
Writhing for your approval.

Still I know I'll submit

To the hopes of finding a kindred spirit--
That my words might touch your eyes,
And soothe your mind.

This is my only wish.

Some people are artists
Some people are art.
Others have the miraculous blessing to be both
Others are cursed to be neither
:;,

I'll try my hardest to refrain from mounting this phony high pony and preach to you,
and to keep from using ******* rhymes and fancy lines that do little more than convolute the truth,
but the fact remains that there's a certain amount of irony inherent in all things,
and I can see it clearly raging inside of you.

Blah blah blah.
These and other platitudes.
You're struggling and you're sad and you're lost and confused.

Don't you realize that you're just climbing up and sliding down the eternal staircase that the rest of us have already grown accustomed to?

Of course not,
and that's why you're smart.
Giving up on the race before it even starts.

What do you want?
No, really.
Out of life,
out of love,  
with hell below and the stars above,
where exactly are you aiming for?

You don't even know,
and somehow,
that's what makes it beautiful.