"But why ask questions
without definite answers?"

Philosophy is a vortex of the unknown;
of confusion that hazes every screen
as the night returns to dawn
--only there is no clear transition
and the night becomes the morn.

But
it changes every decision;
your perception of life through those
tinted, often cracked sunglasses
and pastes a smile on your face;

This is power
of the unknown.

on your birthday
I wrote a letter comprised
of all that I adored;
words articulated in strikethroughs
and barrelled with smiley faces
to disguise my evident
addiction to your smile
--to your happiness.

and although I value your happiness
the letter remains at the bottom
of my computer
untouched, unsent
because my heart is already
shred to pieces, and the thought
of you dismissing
the words I poured myself in
is unbearable.

words;
they never articulated properly
although I pride myself a writer;
I addressed situations I overanalysed
over countless nights of lost sleep,
where your mouth dropped,
your eyes lowered
your breath grew heavier after
another brutal attack from my unaffectionate
words.

I noted little things;
conflicts within yourself
and wrote about them,
my remedy a simple melody
contrasting the bitter tunes
spat at you, through widened eyes
and curled lips.

That letter is unsent
because it exposes too much
about how often I think
dream
feel
about you.

while I say very little

i dream peacefully tonight
with you on my mind
s
    l
      o
         w
             l
                y
singing me to sleep
with words transferred
through a toneless electronic soul
i  cherish them
reread them
s
l
o
w
l
y

with every joke and letter
inking into my mind
recur, recur
'til I am no longer sane.

dream alone
dream vast
dream slow

because i'll remember you,
in the depths of my dreams

slowly
but permanently
you become
a part of me.

My heart bled ink
on the ivories
of the piano;
enveloping all white
in supreme darkness.

He painted every key
with careful, calculated words
that spat venom
to cover
to conceal
and to showcase
the superior identity
of the black keys.

Suffocating black drowned
strangled cries
as the white blended beneath
the black;
forced to play the same
sharp
note
while ignoring their own.

But music is harmony.
Without white, there is no melody.
As a monotonous sound resonated,
the black scrambled to recover
these voices --different,
soothing, rich in beauty--
have already broken.

And so the black keys play
--imbalanced, remorseful,
and forever imperfect.

white fluff
but crunchy
plain taste that
is somehow
fulfilling

Do you watch the night skies
your mouth agape in awe
watching light sparkle; radiate?
remember:
the stars gaze
at your warm heart
self-assured posture
intelligent eyes
and wise soul
with ceaseless fascination.

Vulnerability is trust
Trust is vulnerability
Carefully tread these dark waters;
do not lose yourself.