Pain. Deception. Disappointment. Anger. Guilt. Betrayal. Anxiety. Lost. Confusion. Fury.

A soldier finds a way to come home early
To surprise his lonely girlfriend

A neighbor spends an afternoon raking leaves
To serve the elderly man next door

A brother says "You can play with it first"
To his little sister on his birthday

A student stops to hold the door
To aid the girl struggling with crutches

A customer says "You go ahead"
To the mom with an upset child in tow

A stranger does a deed for a stranger
Paying in advance for the next car's gas

These are but few of the examples
Of kindness I've seen still exist

There is good in the world
Little bits all around, if you'll take a look

It comes from those who don't judge
Who instead look at others for a chance

A chance to decipher what they could do
To help someone around them

They believe in the goodness of choice
The power of even the smallest choices

That just might make someone's day
By reminding them that people care

And that they know we all have bad days
But that they won't last forever

Because the kindness of others
Will always be there, somewhere

So work with the believers
And the fragile, hopeful wishers

The ones with the yearning belief inside
That people are meant for good

That people are meant for people
To push forward the human race

In the development of civility
And beyond civility, genuine kindness

Because really, honestly,
What can't kindness solve?

So be a source of hope
Don't think that you're not much

For even a small source of hope
Still proves that it exists

Because you might not know who needs it
Who's desperately looking for the proof

My imagination is always there,
drawing pictures for other bits of my brain to see what it means
And what's gleaned helps me to think of things,
Like now, when I can't think of what to say
He'll think of something right
and I'll probably ignore it
  Because I usually don't take advice,
Especially from you, you trickster

He's always making me laugh at the wrong times,
  In the street replaying a youtube video
of  a man accidentally washing his hands in a festival ******
"Don't think of it now you'll make me look homicidal"
And then my imagination would put it on
And my laugh became tidal,
  trying not to laugh is the hardest thing to hide of all...
  But he did come up with a way to make me look smooth instead
now if he  makes me laugh he wraps an imaginary bluetooth to pretend to be on
round my head

I like it when you tell me stories when I go to
sleep,
sometimes they are too exciting and I can't sleep
but I like that too,
and when you make dreams
especially if they follow on from the previous stories,
I love sequels
it's funny how they never end
except with death,
and even then maybe
it's just that part's not been released yet

when I was younger
  you used to scare me in the dark
With bit's of scary films
and in the sea with a shark
that you got from Jaws
(You were a bit of a ******* that way)
but often we would get on and we would play
war games and car racing
imagined killings and engines sounds
whilst chasing
in the playground,
We don't do that now
We've changed
there's stranger things
to be seen in the clouds
these days
I hope you don't mind
If we finish this rhyme
but I'm worried for the things you might say.

you once told me that you had always
wanted to climb the water tower
at crescent lake park

so why don't you
i asked, and you shook your head

it's just a stupid dream

(but i didn't see anything wrong with
wanting to feel
above the rest of the world)

You saw a closed door,
I saw a building that wore on its skin a way to go outwards,a way to blow in and let me begin to show you that a,
blue is but colouring, we mix it in dreams
greens,reds and yellows that float upon beds freshly made, where everything laid down is painted a dull brown,but here's a surprise,
pull out the dyes from the eyes that see closed doors and open your mind to the buildings that once wore,
once swore,
one more spell in bedlam,
well,the madman and comic books,given comic looks by quizzical people who can't understand, will stand by the opera house with a cap in his hand and beg programmes from top hats and mink wraps,
and morning slaps me in the face as if the lady had a place to test my theories when I'm weary.
Back in bedlam the corridors with more than doors that hold the screamers,dream of leafy suburb lanes,
suspecting that they're not the same as pisspot crazies,daisy chain the locking gates,automatically prostrate and the man with pentothal will come,we'll tell it all,of how the colours came to call,and we sat down to tea with ice cream cakes and made by me I'll have them know,they always do.
They will go and leave me in another hallway filled with evening primrose blue but smelling antiseptic red which ties me back into the bed.
Tomorrow ,
what the building wore will definitely be a door and nothing more,
I'm getting out of bedlam soon,no more laughing at the moon or seeing things that are not there,
In the end we all turn square and block out dreams,inferrring that, the world's not round
it's bleedin' flat.