That that gives us our power, our spark
taken for granted what millenia has given
we have climbed to such heights and conquered such an unruly globe
in each of us lies the secrete, the essence of how we have been made
embedded in our codes, each of us with this striking skill
at each passing eon connections formed, with every member of our family in tow
Speak, how we became this mind with feet
our walks of great distance were not in silence
each mile a new stage
a stage upon which a new dance was performed and with each passionate step our very core emerged
Listen as we engorge our neurons further
With all the stores still told, the mountains of pages upon which we record
Speech in all its glory
Language our greatest gift
For what are humans without language?
Of all our many tools, none so skillfully used
Each new epiphany owing to our original mastery
Every ounce of life we know,
what we call ... ****
begins in this communication,
continues in eloquent words of endless knowledge retold
what can be said of human beings, only everything
for what else are we but ceaseless speech
a cascade of words
vast elaborations upon which we have built our way of life
to be human is to speak
and to speak was to become human

In sun light I feel less mundane...
Perhaps I should walk out in it more often than just when my muddled brain demands I remove myself from the overgrown weeds of despair and self pity
Let the light clear the clouds from my eyes
Let the air blow away these half rooted seeds of grief
Let it all remind I am young, vital, and I have strength

empty hole... how can you sit right where I exist?
cold meaninglessness... how can you run through me where blood once coursed?
bland mindlessness... why have you taken my thoughts?

A giant crater now sits inside my being, I try to fill this space with substance but every new happiness is washed away in the tide of my wasted life.  

If I were to wish for something I feel it would be ripped so rapidly from me that I would go blind from the flash of hate!  
I try not to think so adamantly of what I truly need any longer, as I am afraid it will simply become a lifeless mess upon my wall.

Where space makes you grow fonder, I am now left with only desperate screaming inside my head for someone to return and remove this wretched blindfold...
what for?  
I'm sure my eyes have become so infected by lies and hate that I can no longer decipher image.  
Music and conversation only confusing noise, it drills into my pores and rings out what remains of my sanity.  
Even the softest touch, though it may comfort for a moment, leaves me, and then I feel only empty.

I would reach out to you, to all, but when I do, I am turned away.  
So why?
I accept my fate.
I wont waste the precious time.
But I waste now anyway, don't I?

I have thought long and hard,
yet my mind is still a blur.

Delusion seems to be more favorable still.

I look for the line, the notches on the sides, the tapering so it will fit;
it isn't there, no it does not exist.

Where is my head, who is this?
What am I to dream idly while life becomes hell, and the time drains from my reservoir?
When did I forget that if you don't occasionally fan the flames they reduce to nothing but embers?

Every morning I stare at my ceiling, squinting, wishing I could make the bumps become more than meaningless fuzzy pictures that disperse the moment I allow my eyes to return to norm.  Why does it anger me so that they are just splotches of paint and plaster? What about this turns my mood so instantly?  What is it inside me that is forgotten so that I no longer can take these tiny splatters and recount an endless history of a small world that knows no end? Of battles, and loves, events happening continuously?  

Why have I become so dull?
To what end is a brain if it is left with no imagination?
To what end is a heart if it is left with no future?

I ask this now, my soul, what is it for?

I survive in an endless controversy between what is and what I thought should be.
I can't seem to let go of what I can not change.

Even now, as I write these words, they are bare, boring, cold ashes that once could have burned.