To all those who are the cause of all their hurt....A Toast.

In this web we people make--those who're the greatest cost to themselves--there is no solace and there is no peace. It is so steadfast--kudos to our weaving--and so fragile--apologies to those we've hurt. We find ourselves stuck, though not in the center of our own design, but along the edges, so near freedom and salvation. It is our curse, to see that the grass is greener, that the sun is brighter, that the rain is sweeter, and the flowers forever in bloom. We know--those of us who have found ourselves in these webs--what will set us free, but our freedom and want are vain and insecure; vain because we wish to be at peace, and insecure because we know that it may never come.

These webs are of rare design and make, and, as such, are stronger than any others. For you see, we have made these webs in haste and without attention, and yet, even as we find ourselves trapped and locked still, every detail, every fiber, and every strand was spared no expense of time and energy. They, these webs, we built and manifested for one single occupancy, none other than the builder them self. And, almost without notice, were at the same time fabricated and planned to fall apart at the simplest break of one tiny strand. Those of us who have built these webs know of what I speak, and they know that that single thing is nothing less than our greatest desire, our deepest hope.

Yet, as I said before, these are of rare origin. They were not made in light heart or gleeful mood, even as we toiled in their creation we painted them in the stains of our tears and blood. These webs were made strong by our weakness, and so long as we remain weak we remain trapped. It is a sad thought and reality to know that you have brought this life upon yourself, and it is even sadder to be the one typing this now, to all of you who have been where I am now, but, even more than that, to all of you who are here now--I can only offer this sad, sincere toast.

To all of you, whether you have been here or not, whether you know anyone who has been here or not, whether you are headed this way or know someone who is--here is my purpose, my point in this posting. Do not forget us, do not abandon us to our hells, though made by us. To those of you who have read this hold it forever in the corner of your mind that you do not know what the future may bring, you do not know what is harbored in its mists. Always be aware that the person you overlook today is the person who could be there for you when no else knows or cares. I have made that mistake, and it has cost me so very dearly. I am bound to my web, do not let yourself be bound to your own.

Poetry is like spider webs. Each word has so much meaning. A spider prefers to spin its web at night. Maybe this is because thats when they have the most on their minds or when they feel safe.

Each web a beautiful creation. The time it takes to create it and the little appreciation it gets. They say a spider will eat its web when moving on, every poet will eat their words one day.

Cob webs, are webs that have been abandoned and left to die. Our bodies will one day be left to die.

This moment, this one right now, is all we have. We will leave our poetry behind to turn into Cob Webs. Maybe one day a child may stumble across these words and bring them back to life.

Poetry is the most powerful thing we have and we need to give it to everyone. So the next time you see a spider web, appreciate it a little more.

Think of it as, poetry. Something or someone spent a lot of time making it. And put their soul into it. Because what is poetry if not a spiders web in the corner waiting to be realized?