The world is not ours,
                  (but that doesn't stop us from wanting it)
Our bodies are not limitless; they do not last forever, though in this moment
                                                          ­                                                 I swear, I almost feel infinite

There was a time when I thought words were immeasurable
Those being said, those already spoken, and those yet to be spoken
They are, were and would forever be endless

Some are exchanged lightly without thought, and others are as thunder, destructive and forceful,
but somehow it doesn't matter how they are said, and to whom;
As long as those words put an end to the drawn out silence
(there is no need for them to be meaningful, or even tender)

I used to believe words were Everything
that language could offer us something unexplainable and undeserved
(As though it was not meant for everyone)
I used to think these things when I was young
                                                           ­             (I still do)

Some poems exist inside of us, and others for all the world to see
But what the world sees, we are blinded to
These poems are not spoken out loud
Because no one wants to talk about their hidden, unmistakable flaws

It's a shame really
We listen so hard, but we never hear the poems we need to hear most

Clouds and rainy days are everywhere, with blue skies and happiness in between
(But what comes after the happiness?)

Our lives, it seems are photographs
Moments of joy, snippets of sadness
Beginnings of one thing,
                                 ends of another
they are simple snapshots taken just to be forgotten
                worn and faded
Beautiful, but so often left in a drawer

Outside our lives, beyond the drawers and would-be frames
The world keeps shifting, moving forward,
                                                 with or without us
Fall-painted leaves, white-blanket snow melting
into the beautiful bloom of spring and warm heart of summer

Trivial are our words
We write all we know, inking down our deepest thoughts,
But the paper stays blank and empty
Our words, despite how lovely and important we think they may be,
                                                             ­                have no power over anything at all
The stars are so far away and out of reach, but even the stars
are no closer to Heaven than we can ever be

We don't know what matters
we complicate things, and make excuses
truly, we don't know what really matters in life
(Or maybe we just don't care about what matters until it's almost gone)
In summer we miss the snow,
               in winter we miss the sun
We have become discontent and unhappy with what we have

So these are the three things I have learned,
One from someone I'll never meet,
                                 two others from people I never knew:

Walk in other people's shoes, regardless of the size
See things through someone else's eyes, instead of looking blindly through your own
Write as if the words you write could be your last