The next life will greet you when the last grain of sand drops,
within the magical hourglass inside our makers' thoughts.
Layer after layer; we shed our fear till the ego is found,
drowned by the light of a supernova,
shattered loud with a glorious sound.
Death ends the circle of life, our bodies will be vaporized.
Hold my hand and close your eyes, hug me tight but do not run,
for tonight the skies ignite in the glory of our supernova sun.

I want to write a screen play
The story of a life
A journey to insanity
The weary inner strife
The endless days of torture
Night's of intense mental pain
The wishing you where dead
Yet clinging to life's vein
When sparks of love afforded
To be snatched away in game
Each tearing a little deeper
Your sanity deranged
Their victory proclaimed
Like chess played with neurons
On a a board that has no squares
A three dimensional prison
That exists inside your head
No solace reached in morning
Their tirade begins again
Retreating deeper inward
You worsen every day
Finally a knife edge
Stay or walk away
Berated for your failure
Each and every day
Survival is all that matters
Clinging to your life
Thoughts are so intransient
You smile as you cry
A hug could simply **** you
Your humanity's been lost
Others did not see it
Nor how you paid the cost
So if I wrote a screenplay
The story of a life
How would I begin or end
What words would I write
Would you see the meaning
And hold me close tonight?

"How are you?"
Such an empty question, with an even emptier answer:
"Good."

I'd like to tell (you) how
Everything I (see) looks disgusting to me.
Watermelon seeds are like bugs
eating away at the raw, juicy flesh.
The ground is infected with muddy snow.
The melting of it unearths carcasses of lost junk.
Leaves are discs of decay.
The wind breathes smoky, tarry clouds by
– fogging up my mind.
Tongues are like slugs; kissing is repulsive.
Bodies are malformed clumps of clay, painted with egos.
Slimy egos.
The emptiness corrodes me.
It's about to get paradoxical,
how full of caves (my) heart is,
each echoing:
"You. You. You."

I'd like to tell you
how when I think of you, my mind immediately jumps to:
Our budding tu(lips) touching.
Embracing you,
the comforting muscles of your arms like sculptured masterpieces,
sheltering me in a warm bubble.
Your breath whispering on my neck, my skin replying with static fuzz.
When I think of you even the puddles of mud look like silk.
The clouds (move) by like pillows of the sky.
Leaves, sheets of oneliness, become one
in an orchestra conducted by the wind.

I want to tell you everything
*(but you can't hear me.)

You blame not
when I am not with you.
You welcome
when I come back to you.
You nourish
when I am open to you.
You flourish
when I am your conduit.

There is no mention
of the time we're separate.
There is no pressure
to be a certain way.
There is no guilt
in being distracted by life.
There is no shame
in being wrong about things,
even yourself.

You are compassionate.

Though,
When I chase, you elude-
(because you are already there in me.)
When I stay, you egg me on
(because you are pure energy.)
When I capture, you escape
(because you are ethereal)
When I accommodate, you amaze
(because you are all-creative)
When I name, you become anomalous
(because you defy labels)
When I control, you boycott
(because to control is to disrespect).
When I let go, you comply
(because by letting go, you let it stay).

You are nothing as you are everything;
the things we perceive are your reflections.
Though you are no singular thing,
that is what allows you to be everything.

You are each person,
but very few people are you.
You are infinite wisdom,
thus can no one define you.
You are a pattern, a fractal of Philosophy
that can be reflected and lived
but not that can be told or taught (other than perhaps by example);
for it is subjectively based on One's existence and mindset.
Based upon One's path:

It is simultaneously the greatest gift and curse
for One to have One's own path:

No one can dictate for anyone else their path
because no one has the path of anyone else,
nor can they know of the path of another.
It's neigh impossible for one to know one's own path;
you must always be seeking to discover it; to let it unfold.

One can and must learn to be more sensitive to One's own path;
That itself takes great mental cultivation,
which in turn takes a willingness for One to learn things about Oneself that One might not like,
not to mention Practice, Self-Discipline, and Patience.
None of which can anyone do for You
but You.
::
It is up to you and you alone how worthwhile your life ends up being;
physical reality is a holographic maximum-security prison for your Chi
but the holographic prison is merciful by the grace of it being holographic.