the first time i tried this,
the page was scattered with
poorly doodled stars
for thoughts i could just
barely fathom in my mind.
a new plot for every thought
that crossed my consciousness
until the paper brimmed with
points that i couldn’t connect
one another to. but you of
all people should understand
that constellations are hard
to create.

how long did it take to find
the perfect combination of
twenty six letters that feel
like silk between my teeth
as i read the text out loud?
how many times did you lull
over each word with thesaurus
to your right, making sure
each word was caramelized
to perfection? watching carefully
for the perfect shades
of amber and rust.

the sweetness of the sunshine
yellow you feed us for hope,
and the dark rich mahogany
that turned bitter everything
that was ever sweet.
when we went looking for
the great land we found
nothing but white tulips
like an apology for not
being something greater
because life is filled with
nothing more than love,
death, adventure and a little
something in between.

and i never knew how love
even worked because
from the outside looking in
it is like the impact of
a truck coming at full speed.
it was going to happen
and it happened, there’s no
in between when honestly
nothing compares to it better
than the hardships of falling
asleep ( though the task proves
harder for insomniacs ).
from the inside you only know
only that it has happened because
love is an unseasoned thing
with a sweet aftertaste.

but this is just a side effect.
this is just the ying to the yang.
i grew up knowing too well that
everything had it’s advocate.
because time’s a **** and she
doesn’t wait on anyone, closing
the gates for anyone who
didn’t have enough to pay
the price to live in the numbered
days. But as days drag on
we find infinities within
our numbered days, the antipode
of time we call hope.

I never knew much about
the world until I started reading
almost forgetting that stories
aren't always about heroes
but people who wish no more
than to seek a great perhaps.