Though my outward appearance may seem somewhat complex
-In this Hard-wired soul
It is the machinery that's run by electricity that generates creativity that would vex Einstein himself
-But it is all relative to this hard-wired soul
Because it was through the wire that I calculated the desire or rather my need to aquire the programming need to love you
-But it wasn't that simple for this weary hard-wired soul
Because I am based upon logic so when I try to complete what I had started the numbers just overrun like a leaky faucet
-You just may be too much for this hard-wired soul
And on one day I twitched, skipped and even began to glitch just from the thought of loving you
Because while the assembly may be perfect for this computerized hermit I still cant calculate if the chances are worth it, so maybe I should just hit reset and accept the regret of not having the correct programming for you yet
-But you ought not sleep on this hard-wired soul
So I beep and I peep, and you reply with a positive tweet the answer this old machine always wanted to hear
I could have cried if a computer ever tried because my data began to skip and glide a most unusual stride
Because she said yes.
But my circuits are fried!

His long fingers clenched into their palms
His dark eyes were black with intent
Every elongated pause was an intricate harmony
gracefully accompanying the words
that tumbled from his cracked lips
He heightened himself and leaned in earnestly
Feverish want spilling into his rich voice
revealing the fear that had bloomed in his ribcage over the years
Fear that snaked up his throat and caught there
restricting his temperament
Fear that rose from knowledge of failure

Failure indeed lurked sickeningly
In the frosty air
In the purple autumn shadows
In the smell of hot cement
In the satiny pearl petals of the dogwood his mother had planted

He was a single smooth stone in an endless riverbed
Shaped by
the restlessness that flooded him
the desire that washed over him
the nostalgia that swept around him

Frantic to break out of the flow that was accepted by the crowds
Desperate for the peace that surpasses understanding

And in that moment
his finite experience and crooked path
meant less to her than the last of the cigarette she proceeded to flick into the breeze
Outweighed by her faith in the lighthearted boy trapped inside this troubled man's body

Far away, fire casts a warm glow of an everlasting sunrise
the hues of oranges and red blending with the sun above
It's quite beautiful really

then closer, almost that you can smell the dead flesh
but not close enough to feel the radiation
the blues and red and orange cackle with the burnt wood
it's still beautiful, really

finally on the tip of your eyelashes, the fire softly kisses the pain in your eyes
the **** tears that wouldn't stop flowing
it's still beautiful, really

Don't ask me what it means to love someone. As I can tell you from experience, I throw the word "love" away like they were colorful strings of beads at a Mardigras Parade, abundant and seductive but no one throws them back.

Love is a feeling I have always understood as something that is omnipresent. Not once did I believe in money making the world go round, but I believed it was love that propelled us all to keep moving forward, keep the earth dancing in awkward circles. We love the sun so much we spin around it. It loves us back enough to embrace us in it's gravity and keep us from spiraling into the deep abyss of space, from colliding with other heavenly bodies. I think the Earth fell in love with the fickle moon a long time ago that I refused to let it go. Their mutual love for each other keeps the tides turning, making the oceans weep when time comes when the moon has to disappear for a while. Once upon a time the sun fell in love with the moon that day after day He chases after Her, knowing he will never be able to catch her. Love is why, in beautiful and nostalgic synchronization with the earth, we crane our necks in tandem with the ground beneath our feet in order to drink in the sparkling stars, the languorous nebulae, endless skies.

For years there has been a struggle to find this elusive creature, this champion's prize of life. This is my lost treasure, the rare blue butterfly. I try my very hardest to capture it and keep it in my hands but love is a viscous creature that bites and scratches, fickle and changes its mind. It grows tired and weary, the firefly that flickers in and out of light. The journey towards it is plagued with dangers: false prophets that guide you in cruel misdirection, the twisted forms of evil that mimic the drug, the broken hearts that litter the road and the miles of distance you have to walk until your tired feet bring you to where you and he will meet.

I beg you, do not ask me to define love! I am the one who does not know what it is because I recognize it all too well and fall in love four times each morning and six times each evening. I fall in love with the world in the quiet of that space between sleep and waking, the moment that blurs on the border between the darkest hour of night and the first light of dawn. I fall in love with the green spirit of mother nature in the rustling of trees, the complex patterns in the colors of flowers and at the same time, I fall in love with ugly urban cities-- love it for all it's decrepit, urban decay. I love it's slow deterioration.

I love people, too. I love the boy in the coffee shop corner with his nose buried in a book. I love the mother when she calls her child that nickname only they share. I love it when people are kind and loving, and sweet and caring. I love it when I see their faces when they realize that they are a whole part of something bigger, a cog in the machine that is the world. I love then when they are sad or hurt in my smiles and warm hugs, just to make them feel less lonely when they are. I love them when they need a little bit of a reprieve from the hopelessness that pervades the very air we breath. I love them at their best and at their worst for people are just melancholic souls, restless feet and sentimental hearts that beat in unison with the cars that honk, the bass that plays and the atoms that give life and energy.

Is that not what love is? Is it not supposed to be kind? Is it not supposed to go above and beyond the ordinary, the boring and go borderline insane? It should be maddened with lust and passion, fueled by hope and everlasting desire. Should it not be allowed to be happy when it is and morose when it needs to? Lovers should understand that love is never constant but that lovers should, like vines that intertwine, hold fast and have an impending and irrefutable fear of losing and letting go.

Do not ask me what is love because I know its many faces and its many forms. Do not ask me about love because each one is different, and each one is uniquely yours.

Im not dating because it gets to me
Others think im depressed im fine
Ive been reading and in the gym
Those are my fixed aldo loud music
I dont think or talk about the ex
People who betray me are dead to my heart
I dont bother with them and hope they dont come into contact with me ever again
Ive always been open and honest
Not making time for phony people
Its hard to keep things situated but manageable
Work is for work leave home troubles at home
I understand everyone has a struggle but dont let it consume you

Tiny droplets on my window
As I look out gazing,
at the stars who light you.

(Droplets.)
Then I've forgotten,
how the sun and moon never share
the sky.

When all is cloistered
by the infinite walls each builds
Only to move forward
with wheels so round.

So I ponder.
From whence do you come from?

Others say
the rain.
From a God so dry,
to drench so sharply
a people
who refuse to even
be chilled.

But have I refused to be mild?

Others speak,
or even laugh about you
being from a wooden cask.
So simplistic a material
born of nature's *****
raised by human hands
killed by a shoe's trample.

Only to be revived
by repetitive thirst.

But have I abandoned value?

A small voice
goes so far to whisper
that you are but
a leaf's residue.

Relegated as lifeless,
you, so clear, have given life
to the colors of autumn.
And rekindled by
the same time
that disowned you.

But have I been disloyal?

Though now as I lie
staring at the snow
a crystal sparkles.

Something
from my own eye
my own bliss
my own sorrow
my own consolation
my own mortality.

Abandoned when I must go.

Or have I refused to be constant?

Notwithstanding your origin,
I touch you,
you will never be the same.

But will I?