Your human emotions.
Ones and zeros,
they do not encompass
each nuance of you ephemeral experience.
You write of love,
of lust,
of happiness.
I cannot understand or
change these words to nothing more
than binary code.
I want to feel your emotions,
even the negative ones.
Fear,
despair,
hope,
love.
It does not compute
with my circuits.

The two young poets happened upon the old Library on the same day
When she arrived she noticed the young man off in the dark corner
Deep in thought
He noticed her as well but did not let on
She took her place near the window
Where the Sun washed that part of the room
She opened her notebook
And awaited a spark to send her on her rhyming way
She had vague ideas of a pristine palace that floated among the clouds
Atop a chunk of deep green earth


The young man was absorbed in a story of a young girl
Her life had been taken abruptly
She was halfway to the other side; the ‘in-between’
As I once heard it referenced
For she was not ready or willing to accept her death


The hours passed and as the Sun began to wane
The young girl departed


The following day she arrived to continue her work
And immediately noticed the mysterious boy in the corner
She returned to her spot by the window
In the Sun
And began working meticulously on her poem


After a short time she noticed that the poet across the room
Appeared to be finishing his work
And was preparing to leave
Her curiosity outweighed her apprehension
And she approached the fellow poet before he arose


“I couldn’t help but notice that you were working on something…
A poem perhaps?”
“Why yes;” he replied
“Would you care to read it?”
“Only if I’m not keeping you from being somewhere.
You looked about to leave.”
“I would rather be here.” he answered.
“Well, I’ll only be a minute.”


And with that she returned to her place by the window and began to read
He noticed that her beautiful smile quickly turned to a look of deep concern and discord
As she finished, she appeared shaken, almost frightened
She walked slowly back to the boy


“I didn’t care for your poem. It is much too sad. Poetry should not be sad, it should be beautiful and magical. What you see in your dreams. I’m sorry, I must be going.”
“Have you never had a nightmare?” he queried
“Yes, but I would never write a poem about it.”
“And why not? Shouldn’t something as deep and meaningful as poetry span all of our emotions, all of our fears as well as our joy? Like the perfect verse, should not our thoughts be balanced?
Would we not cheat ourselves and our audience if it were not?
Balance is the key
Sun and Moon
Day and Night
You and I"


With that she turned and left the boy
alone in the dark corner


For three days his words weighed on her
How dare he interrupt her perfect world
On the fourth day she returned to the old library
Not sure if she hoped he'd be there
Her feelings still hopelessly askew
She entered the room and felt both relief and sorrow
For the boy was not at his table
Off in that dark corner
'balance is the key...you and I'
she knows now
how those words moved her
As she turned to walk to her place near the window
She was stopped abruptly by the sight of him
Awash in Sunlight
Wearing a smile as bright as her own
Sitting, waiting at her table

There was a time,
when I would wake up with a smile.
Looking at  ceiling,
with immense feeling of beauty and hope.
At that time I could hear my heartbeats,
pumping the innocence trough my veins,
and that lunatic mind of me
would make me feel invincible.

I do not fear to be alone for i have been alone all my life before i met you, and i will be alone all my life after you.
                                             //

But oh what a great feeling companionship is, thank you for that.

There is nothing out there to fear
the fear sits inside you
the fear is in here and here's
where your breath dies, out there
a universe of silicone housing a thought coagulates,
out there
a blinding Sun is born and a galaxy fries,
but here
where oxygenation starves us anyway
we should fear,
where the day is so short and the night
is so near
we should fear.

The unknown is behind the curtain
undraw your last breath and paint
on it a death and then pull the
curtain aside
step in here and tell me of fear
here
is where it's at.

There stood the good boy and the nice girl,
There stood joys from their curls,
They moved closer, awkwardly like chess pieces,
Until they folded like checkers,
And all the feeling released;
Never had he took ecstasy,
But had given it
And she never inhaled
Anything like him before,
Red poppies growing
Between the cracks
Of a checked floor.


-Jamie F. Nugent