You smell like honeysuckle, buttercup, mountain laurel, sweet pine, white birch, autumn air, sea breeze, and everything heavenly.

You feel like woven silk, soft cotton, powder snow, warm water on a cold morning, wet sand, hot springs, whirlpools, and everything heavenly.

You taste like strawberries, dark chocolate, hot fudge, cinnamon, pumpkin spice, rainbow sprinkles, butterscotch, cotton candy, and everything heavenly.

Your body makes my body feel like crashing waves, hurricanes, wind gusts, icicles, hot spice, goose bumps, static electricity, and everything heavenly.

Together we are a goose feather blanket on a cold winter night, a spring-fed stream on a hot summer day, a toasty fire on a rainy eve, a familiar face in a strange city, and everything heavenly.

Safe, ****, sweet... you are to me... and everything feels so heavenly.

She looks into their eyes and doesn’t understand.
Death is overcoming her… becoming her… and she doesn’t seem to notice.
How did she get to this place in time?
Where will all the memories go?
Does she have a hand to hold, a soul to give, or peace to behold?
An ensemble of faces, the ones that gave her pleasure, now bring sadness to her.
A heavy weight is carried in their sorrowful eyes.
She looks to them and wonders why.
Why the sadness… why the tears… why the fears?
They see the end that is ahead… but she does not know what is to come.
She wonders if this is when faith would have been a friend.
She wonders if her faith has been strong enough.
She wonders if she has questioned too much.
She is okay with the coming of the end.
It is as if she awaits a blissful rest.
No fear is shown.
I hope she does not know the terrible ache I feel… the madness throbbing in my chest.
Do they wonder why she is not distressed?
Do they not see her end as a peaceful rest?
Does anyone else feel angry?
Does anyone else see what I have come to believe?
Her genius wasted on a world unworthy;
Her struggle with the demons fought in vain.
Is this the sadness I see on their faces?
Please don’t let it be pity! For that is not what she needs.
I hope they can see…
This woman is more than a symbol of internal wars.
She had gold in her heart and fever in her mind.
A brain filled with wisdom and with no one to share.
Her insight now dwindles in the air… threatening to leave us behind.
Do you see? Are you contemplating the magnitude of her gifts?!
This is the sadness throbbing in my chest… the cause for bitterness that I do not wish to keep… the deep pains of loss that I do not wish to face.
Love, peace and compassion for her soul;
A soul who has endured more pain… more unjust… than any soul should have to know.
Does she see the peace ahead… the blissful rest that waits?
I hope and pray she does… but we may never know.
A test of OUR faith, I suppose.
No truth is clear in what I believe; the faith of unknowing is what I seek.
I do not know if I will see you when I reach the end of MY days.
I can only hope… there will be redemption.
I did not reveal to you the purpose I saw within you.
Did you know? Did you wonder? Did you hear the truth from that place of blissful rest?
Now I cry in sorrow for your soul.
Now I am filled with the loss of what you did not know.
Do you understand what I see?
I see an angel on earth who was never given a chance to spread her wings.
You have been failed.
It is not a thought I want to remember you by… but it is one that I should carry by my side.
Our discomfort is nothing compared to your struggles on this earth.
May you have the peace you believe in… the peace you see at the end of your days… the blissful rest that waits ahead.
May our perceptions be changed; may your struggle not be in vain.

A common thread runs through us... connecting our spirits... our lives.
This thread is difficult to see for some... impossible to see for others... and neglected by many.
What a shame it is to feel so disconnected... so lonely... when we share this thread among us.

Conditional beyond reasonable
Is how our relationship sometimes feels...
More often than I'd care to admit.

My love is unconditional
And, therefore, can be easily used (abused?)
The value forgotten or blinded whenever I act human, imperfect, fragile or broken... Inconvenient I am. So are we all.
Where does your anger come from?

Taken for granted
Until you find something YOU miss.
Over and over again, this cycle persists...

Only according to your terms
Only if convenient
Only if it serves your sole purpose
Only if maintenance-free
Only if easy... Perfect... Not too much trouble...

UNTIL there is something you need...
From me.
Yes, boundaries are a necessity.

But relationships based on
Convenience for oneself
Are not relationships, at all..
They are one-way streets
Serving one person's agenda

Controlling, manipulative, self-serving, emotional toil...
And, somehow, always justifiable (in your eyes)
Because I am not who you want me to be...

I don't fit your "ideal" mold.
And you feel that is what you are owed?
(I honestly don't know...)
Except when you feel alone, afraid, or empty.
You don't dare lose what you can use! (abuse?)

But dare I say or do something amiss...
Your "conditions" will persist.
How do I say "stop!" when my role is to love, protect, and forgive?

Pain. What to do with all the pain.
If I tell, I will be blamed for my pain causing your pain...
This, my love, is NOT love.
No relationship of substance exists
When such rules and expectations persist.

First the sun
Warm and gold
Then the wind
Swift and bold
Of all that I know
Little I remember; little I behold

Fearing it is my last... I gasp for breath.

A scent like no other
Fills my emptied soul
Memories flood into me
Like a perilous undertow
A wave catches me
And carries my soul

I am full again.

Wonder pulsates through my veins
Living is no longer in vain
Blood warms my extremities
Chasing fond memories
Once again, I begin
For the moment, I am

I see... I breathe... I believe.

For the moment, no end
To stop me
No fear to paralyze
No wounds to hide
A moment of peaceful bliss
All tears subside

I will let this wave carry me.

I don't fight the current
I let it take me
where it wants
Not out of bravery
But from my addiction
To wonder... and clarity

You can see the ugly words that hurt;
or you can see the pain that lies underneath.
The perception will be your reality;
but your perception is your choice.

There is so much that I wish I could understand…
and so much more I wish I could explain.
The love I feel inside comes out distorted;
I feel trapped inside a prison—a prison called “what you see of me”.

Some are afraid of who they really are…
But I am afraid no one knows who I really am;
No one sees what is deep inside of me.
I am forever stuck inside perceptions—a prison called “what you see of me”.

I keep trying to improve; I keep trying to reconcile.
The distortions have become my prison; I am trapped inside hell.
If it is hell to you and it is hell for me… then what the hell am I doing?
believing I can change—a prison called “what you see of me”.

With every fail, the pain deepens…
Successes are too little; successes are too late.
How to receive love; How to give love…
when I must question everything that everybody sees?
How I say it (not what I believe) is the reason I reside in—a prison called “what you see of me”.

A description of me sounds like a description of my worst enemy.
A burden to society; A thorn to those who try to love me;
A hindrance to those who want to know me.
It isn’t the real me… it is the weathered walls of—a prison called “what you see of me”.

But isn’t perception another form of reality?
What does it matter what I am… if that is all anyone can see?
I suppose I know the answers; I just don’t know the why…
Why I continue to believe that I can change—a prison called “what you see of me”.

I am
Running
I am running.
I am running, jumping, playing
Until the cliff
The cliff I see ahead.

I visualize
Myself
I visualize myself running, jumping, flying.
I see
Myself
I see myself soaring.

But I do not see
I do not see any wings
No wings to carry me.
I see
Myself
I see myself falling.

Falling off the edge
And I fear
I fear there is nothing I can do.
So I ask
I ask if it is
If it is the end.

My scars remind me of many things…
Some I want to remember and others I want to forget.
I am pure to the truth but I swell in regret.
Shame, pain, triumph, strength… scars represent.

There are no badges to wear;
I have no pride to hide.
I am not a product of the stories;
I refuse to be a prisoner of my descents.

The past is often forgotten...
Memories distort beyond recognition.
Scars will fade, darken, stretch and shrink.
But the deep ones stay; I still can’t forget.

Emotions dissipate... or so I thought.
But now I believe they simply hide
beneath layers of damaged skin...
keeping those scars painfully alive.

It isn’t protection; it isn’t healing.
No badge I’ll wear; no pride I’ll find.
Yes, these scars are mine…
But I am not my scars! And my scars are not yours.

To some, I am marked for life;
I cannot control their stereotypes.
I **** them and their forced opinions!
They thrive on my scars; they try to create new wounds.

Sometimes, I let you see my scars… but I am far from naïve.
I know I am giving you a temptation and a tool.
Don’t try to own me… you are a fool to think you know me.
The why, when, and how is my personal mystery.

I won’t let you look beyond the fragments;
Deep below the layered scars hides my truth.
I will not allow you entry; I am still afraid.
Self-inflicted wounds are far more acceptable.

I do not wish for more scars…
to add to my repertoire.
I do not wish for more adversaries…
to shove me back into the ground.

My past is mine and mine alone; it remains a part of me.
But despite the spite I feel…  
My past is not my present; my past is not my future.
And it certainly is NOT any of your business.

Willows whisper secrets in my ear;
secrets that I cannot hear.
I wish and wonder why
the wisdom I am given is so profound.

Deep, intense… vision and insight
without a useful purpose.
Feels much like a thorn I cannot find…
constantly digging into my side.

I do not understand the what or the when;
Amnesia has stolen most of my development.
But memories are more than mere facts;
The procedures and the logic and the sense remain.

A sense of which I cannot describe…
It tastes a bit like dry, red wine.
Bites my tongue, rendering all vocalization
incoherent; all memories distorted.

I search, I scan, I compare, I analyze…
And, ultimately, I suspend.
Permanence I will fight to the end.
Purpose is to be made… and not to be found.

Perhaps this coherence is not profound.
Perhaps it is of common sense.