You are the primary colors in their purest form. The following argument explains why:

Red
People tend to associate red with danger,
but you are not a warning sign.
You represent the russet in a robin's
breast feathers, the imaginative crimson passion
only humans can produce. Constantly moving,
thriving, your brain is multiple shades
of garnet gems - I can feel it in your skin
when I finally get to massage your heated veins.
Your flaming vermilion soul is
the only one to match my own.

Blue
You are the calmest turquoise ocean, yet
you pulsate with every breath.
There are so many varieties of blue
found in nature, and I can hear all of them
when your fingers tap an instrument.
Your music turns broken energy into
waves and waves and a soft, steady breeze.
I will take a dip into your teal silk arms and
stay for eternity. Sapphire isn't a way to the blues;
it's a realistic path to tranquility and the deepest skylines.

Yellow
You are golden beyond all other beings.
The warmth of your smile, your
soft eyes are a glowing reminder
of your effervescence. There's a child-like
wanderer in your heart that's seeking ecstasy
and the opportunity to bring us absolute bliss.
This is the part of you that makes you part of everything.
You are daises and sunshine. You are in
my favorite yarn and the amber streak
on an otherwise empty canvas.

Overall
You are a prism of idealistic intensities,
saturation and pigments
that are lost on the unexceptional.
Your arc of varied hues gleam beyond what a
human should be capable of mastering.

You are incredible illumination at its finest.

There's something magical
that happens when my fingertips
finally reach your surface.

The heat of your miraculous
charm and allure radiates
past your muscles, veins, and skin,

emerging through an enchanting
symmetry that can outwit
every downplayed olfactory
my mind creates.

Your pulse is pure beauty
that you couldn't possibly understand.
But it doesn't matter if you know --
you shine and glow as
wonderfully as any of the stars.

You have the warmest skin.

STOP TREATING EACH OTHER LIKE ****.
Country to country, person to person.

What does is matter if we lead distant life styles?
Each human has his or her own path to amble along. Why are
we stomping on each other's feet? Because  
our lessons may contradict? To advance ourselves?  Fear?

Living is the adventures you jump into,
and taking in the stories of every soul you encounter
will teach you how to initiate euphoria.

How are you going to hear the beautiful symphony
of 7,000,000,000 hearts beating with your fingers in your ears?

I don't believe in destiny and I definitely don't believe in God.
I might believe in fate, but I can't define it.
I don't know if I know anything when you look at the big picture.

Maybe I believe things happen for a reason or if they don't,
they happen anyway and it matters.  It all definitely matters.

What I'm saying is, I'm sure that I've finally climbed to the highest cliff I could find
and the hike was ****    sometimes,
(although the days of glory still permeate through my smiles),

but I'm finally at the peak and there's a ******* valley of evergreens and daisies below me,
and it's like every rock that pierced through the lines on my hands,
and the gallons of run off that kept my bare-skinned feet from solidity,

scraping my shins daily, had to do so; for the lasting.
No other hill could have led to a clearing as beautiful as this.
The valley is you.


The valley is you.

Sometimes, right before drifting off,
when your leg's planted against my cast-iron limb,
your arm's length cradling the fear of deprivation
I can't shake without at least a teacup's worth of
bourbon or whiskey or patient caresses,

I forget the ground and find myself
circling the rings of Saturn, using the friction from
your fingertips making patterns to flip to a moon,
Titan, where the dirt feels like cotton on my skin
when I try to make angels out of the dust.

You once told me that you weren't quite
sure this isn't all pretend, an alternate reality
conquest that everyone's in on but you,
and trust me I've thought that, too, but,
baby, I'm sure now this is blissful actuality.

I don't know if you're up for perpetual
ventures in dry humor and messy tabletops,
but I'm willing to build some shelves for
my multitude of flowered vases, and, like you
said about this game, at least we're winning.

I'll crochet us some covers with crazy colors,
to blanket the trouble we'll sustain in
burnt suppers and getting the hammer to
do its job when it doesn't want to mar the
beauty of a freshly painted wall.

You can entertain any aches; I'm well-versed
in phoenix tears and have a safe ear for wilting
daisy petals that you should throw in the soup.
It's tomatoes and old *** and some carrots
(for the eyes), a meal to eighty-six tremors.


Our exploits are easy because your toes
are catapults to another galaxy at least,
and your shoulders cradle my war stories
so well, like a warm rug after cold tile,
like a spot on Earth that's never been stood on.

You've fanned my simmering flame with your
kisses like raindrops, light and heavy, and I
can't be sure if I'm still masquerading or holding
a candle with a spotlight's incandescence,
but I've stopped spending pennies on worries

and instead free my palms to keep my hands
in your hair. I see your smile at the train
station and I'm willing to bet my stash on
our chances at breathing freely (why?) mostly
because of your leg, still firm against mine.

To start --
being an adolescent with autumn eyes,
seeking a prophecy for long-standing bravery
to further the spinning spokes for minutes, five more,

I burned the drapes to reveal a humanity only I could see.

The expectations were elaborately existing, unsatisfying. Sons
and fathers, years refrained from matters
that reverse reverse reverse curses and maturity
without purpose.

Those idle accepted neglect, and the existence of an
unsalted bridge was quickly detained. Alone, the foolish described
to search for the future in geometric formation and coffee ring
stains fading the desk.

But the sense proposed in my decided equality drank dignity
straight from the bottle. The road that lead me between two cliffs,
Propriety and Statistics, with the rocks already pelting down,
could not diminish my enthusiasm for necessary absurdities.

There's no flesh in declared mediocrities.

I became a luminary for pleasures of eminence, hope with resolve,
opportunities in destiny. Blind gambles obliged the fear of exacting
sensibility. Passionate follies created no-regret-consequences,
satisfied stability. Only the **** are granted victories in eternal gaiety.

Mortality is irrelevant if you let mystery be your urgency.

The world in failure  is  success.
Attend the international footstep's fire.
Words are abused for idol envy.
Every action sums the  Earth's  final.

So --
Swallow    scream      strike!

Realism is never ashamed of precipitation.

The dusty light filtering through the thin
orange and red scarves covering the window

draws a hazy, tinted mirage on the tiled floor
that the cat can't help but curl under,

his fur heated and shimmering, although
I overlook all of this as my hopeless mind is

drawn to the shadowed spot in my perip-
hery where you kissed me yesterday.

Unprovided -- the pleasure of pleasing
is, after all, a painting that resolves
the irritating swings of a taxed evolution.

It seems that energetic trainees
of the future keep firm invitations
on the list of approved measures.

Yet living is not a guesstimate, reality
is attached by humor to the document
that simply reads "I'm not sure."

Imagine civilization as eight-years-old.
By want, business drains, not one laugh,
but the replacement of being one's own.

Shaped, the body is wary of the
counselor and satisfied by the character
of a farmer and time away from scorn.

Hang a map of sensibility in the kitchen,
where bare eyes can respond -- tokens of
action are the door prize for motivation.

The lessons not yet learned are musical.

The stereo lights are neon and remind me of a book
I read in middle school. I can't remember the title,
Only that nostalgic comfort of a book that relates,
dictates your own inner workings and schemes. It's
Difficult to find this emotion in modern-day fiction;
Do you ever miss the moss behind your ears when
You're watching an actress snort her way to gold?
Amelia Earhart has always inspired me. I like to
Associate with the theory that she chose to lose
herself in that triangle, immerse herself in a lost
Island life style. Even Brooke Shields made a life
stranded, and though it's just a movie, aqua water
And sandy hips appear, reappear in my dreams. I
can build a fire with a palm tree and the palms of
Your hands. I can build a home with leaves and the
beauty of your blink. A coconut kiss is precious.
Amelia's an explorer, a woman who understands
her destination. Surely she couldn't resist the dusty
Beaches once she flew miles above them. Friday's
are perfect for losing past transgressions, so I can
Comfortably pretend this ***** stream is the Mississ
-ippi and I'm floating on a raft made from the peach
Core. Is there anything better than a high?

To live is to research happiness
and homes for the pleasure of ending.
People, through illusions, can shape
happy possibilities from speech and position.

Don't write it out.

A life more useful than tragic
is original in a moment,
can transcend as well as
fall into mistakes and experiences.

To get your body to lean
as far forward over the
insurmountable bubble as possible,
Is to create magic that consists of gateways
and actions -- the outcome of which
can place a thinker with only few
leaps stranger than your enemies.

Always forgive.

Magic sometimes longer than a pause
between morality and naked minds
influences the two ways a relapse synapse will run.
The true temptation of safety can be
carpeted by play dough and play grounds.

It's better to not sustain interfering manufactors,
to not pirate the lies a man historically risks
on quality of thoughts,
But instead depend the nature of your virture
on exploration at the heart of echoes.

Why should you quit?

A human's greatest obstacle is finding the principles
we don't discover with the jailer listening and
men afraid to rock the boat.
Give better than you dare have.
Reset the age of the mind and give parallel
truths at the point of sweeping tides.

To understand the laws of popular drifting,
compromise the art of part establishing,
occupy an ambitious ideal;
You will lose an elevation over not being, not remembering.
Sometimes treading water becomes a nuisance,
and you'll lose a choice in the dungeon.

Don't abandon your force.
Don't regret the pursuit of circumstances.
Don't delude a reputation of bridges and evidence.

Empathy is traveling the world for imagination and salvation.
We are here for a spell; one equality
shreds the ears ready to get you in trouble.

Camel-colored corduroy, light wood
As comfortable as a chair in a waiting
Room of a diagnostic center can be,
The center of each chair sinking
With the invisible weight of bad news

Shadowed walls -- fluorescent lights
Surrounded by glass windows (it's going to rain!)
Making it impossible not to notice
Grey skies, dying trees

Is there really healing in a place with no feeling?

Chattering of the women behind, in front
Surrounding (no, those pink pills are for evening)
They're here every week -- used to fading

Family in the corner
Fear radiating
In the shaking of the knees, the hand
Running through a father's brown hair
Pacing -- new to the waiting

Pounding head matches pounding heart
Pounding veins (the door
Is flung open) (anderson!)

Not the right name
Another minute still to dream
Of new diseases unknown cures
An alien baby with six fins
Growing in my thyroid,
Maybe a new form of mad cow disease

Has it really only been fifteen minutes?

Man with sunken eyes, shriveled hands
Staring at me, whispering to his nurse
That I'm a demon red (don't mind him)
His wife has cancer and his body's dying

Thank the black woman turning the tv to silent
No one wants to hear about politicians' affairs
While they're waiting for their cure
Or diagnosis

Marean, sarah? sarah? once twice
Flashing orange
Second door on the left
The left, the left -- okay, lay on the
Plastic (how's middle school?)
I'm 20.

Then a long-haired woman hovering
Lights out
Blue glare of screen
Memorizing past accidents, unnatural
Genes (how's the ankle)
Aches on snow days
(Take this towel put your head back
Don't move  have you done this
Before?)

Expecting to feel a cold gel
But instead having an almost-
Liquid that shocks the skin -- pour on
The throat, torturing the nerve endings
Heated

No further description or
Terms of consideration (violation)
Plastic scanner pressing,
Digging into the esophagus, )(just
Sit still shhhh )

Like thick, rough fingers
Fingers scratching, squeezing
Choking -- panic (don't panic)
Resisting the urge to claw, white spots
Don't fight (silence)

Breathing
Fists clenching tightly
Woman's eyes changing, medusa
Coming alive in a
Spinning room
No breath
Falling

.

Door opening, flash of green
Fingers disappear to a cart being
Wheeled away
Neck (throbbing)
Machine blue screen flipped off

Now that wasn't so bad, was it?


Jump up, coat on running out
The door to the safety of a
Car with yellow lights, results by
Friday (smells likes rain)
Trees skies dead grey
Still

Warning:
The seagull flying over the Appalachians
could not possibly be amused by the
puzzles of an illegitimate composer
and the skyscrapers climbed.

1.
The skyscrapers were played by tall
rocks a girl climbed when she couldn't
remember if the cape she wore was
made from steel or newspaper.

11.
The newspaper they all read together
that morning (girl, boy, king, etc)
promised nothing but a fifty percent
chance of dandelions terrorizing the bus stop.

2.
The bus stop had since become a
dealer corner and the sunset behind
the mountains was blocked by the
flipping hair of a lost boy.

7.
The boy bought a toy for cheap -- it had
a built-in laser, so she stole it to blast a
whole hole in that guilt-ridden quilt hung
over the four dollar love seat.

6.
The love seat, she bought the day he went
to maple -- the soap dispenser was broken,
but she couldn't find anything new (that she
knew) to wash her hands with.

5.
The hands that handed her a hammer were covered
in promotions, so she stole the motorcycle when
they were watching the scarecrow going
through electric-shock, disco therapy.

8.
The therapy that she received from the
parrot-king and his troupe of square roots
was enough to make her not forget not regret
the boy with feathers in his ears.

10.
The ears she woke up with one morning
were different in shape than before
and the black fur she knew
was growing before her eyes.

3.
The eyes of the boy were wider than
the nightly news station promised, and
there wasn't really a difference
between caves and boxes in a town that small.

4.  
The town she arrived in didn't have
a carpool lane or derby, so
she had to take her pet goldfish
to the river for his depressive state.

9.
The river wasn't as flooded after a couple
weeks of changing the tune on the jukebox
she found way before the departure
of her white gold pearls.

12.
The pearls she wore for her
coming-of-age were buried beneath
a dirt mound when she promised herself
to always insist on herself.

I asked my mother for a glass kaleidoscope,
but instead she handed me three shots of wine
and a field guide to running galactic bases,
which I guess is her way of selling dreams
at low prices. I have yet to understand a coffee shop's symmetry,
so I embrace the scrupulous company of a dragon-riding-a-butterfly.

One spin around the Milky Way leaves the butterfly
with holey wings and the dragon vomiting in my make-shift kaleidoscope.
The apple tree in the corner of the living room ruins the symmetry
of the space and I have to chug another glass of wine
to make up for the peach tree I couldn't dream
about and another wrong note sung by the basses.

The song's in too low of a key, which is the basis
behind the evil chinchilla's plan to mass-produce butterfly
farms as part of a larger goal to pillage the dreams
of dreamers. Luckily, we all have a handy-dandy kaleidoscope
and a bag (or two) of bitter-tasting wine
stolen from their boxes -- too much symmetry.

My brother put a block on local news; the symmetry
of our county's border was too much for me to bear. He bases
his action (when mother asks) on the wine
he didn't drink, so I throw the broken butterfly
out the window where it lands on my nephew's spinning kaleidoscope.
He doesn't know it yet, but that drum he's banging will envelop his dreams.

A hike to the top of the cliff (a leap) re-energizes my dreams
and I still can't relate to the maple leaves and their symmetry,
but at least I can look through a lampshade at the kaleidoscope
of trees dancing below me. There are seven thousand bases
yet to run and they still haven't caught the butterfly,
so a boy yells, "Drink!" and I take another sip of wine.

The dragon and chinchilla are tipsy from the wine
at this point and discuss the difference between dreams
and electricity while my mother sautés the butterfly
in ice cream and abstract ideas. The symmetry
of my right ankle is still a bother, so I tell the basses
to sing a quarter tone flat while I collide a scope.

Off goes dragon-with-butterfly (once again) and I finish the wine.
I make my nephew a chinchilla-skin kaleidoscope and rinse the rocks stained with dreams.
My mother comments on the apple tree's symmetry while the trees below keep running bases.