For us to understand humans, we must first detach ourselves.

A judgemental, prideful and arrogant writer confines within his mind.

Writer
[noun]

someone who cultivates raw dirt to produce a single flower, blooming from the depths of their soul;
but grows addicted to its presence --beauty amongst darkness.
and in attempt to conceal the muddy reality, develops a garden with lavish, beautiful flowers--
of assorted variety, with unique traits of every flower and indistinguishable as stars in the night sky;
but harsh winter tramples with intricate footsteps, the petals tragically withered and torn as the writer's heart
their watery eyes acknowledging the dirt once more.

I am a humble painting
hung upon a common wall,
composed of grey tears;
striking, yellow laughter;
trampling fear; undisciplined love,
of other human beings.

you want
a part-time job
as a backup if the
guitar in your hands
fail to entice
under moonlit skies.

this kind of idealism
is the beauty I long for
in this  world of
status, competition,
envy.

your silence is beautiful.

you express love
behind sealed lips
and twinkling eyes--
to return with my own,
in a vast ocean of emotions;
lavender, orange sunsets
all without a single
audible sound.

we reside
in a world
of our own.