1.
The non peril writer,magnificent illustrator,
dexterous editor,all in one of the book of life,
each one, each page,each edition looks and reads
different, yet one in essence, though flavors vary.
We hear  you speak every tongue,Latin, Arabic, Hebrew
and in sonorous Sanskrit,you make us chant"Earth is one nest"
2.
Such profuse creativity  baffles one and all, ever
is your prime possession;  manifestation as well!
The nebulous one, present in each cell,each neuron,
well,  everything ever appeared,anywhere in cosmos,
we attempt to know you in myriad means, give you names
that pleases us, we try to possess you in ways even mean.
We hallucinate our cameras of mind, captures  you right
with the eyes of science; you still prove to be like music.
3.
In our limited resources allotted by neuron collectives,
we make you sit on the throne, of the architect of cosmos,
that evolves and emerge,and itself erases when time is ripe.
The artistic painter of emotions, that has been baffling,
the mix of color happens without any  guide book.
sans blue print of any kind or elaborate plan to execute.
4.
You have no designated place to live, in spite of our wishes
you are omnipresent , the string, player as well as  music,
your thought work we all are, weaved in to one from
strands of of ancient  DNA things preserved,through ages!
Oh! the one that's beyond the realms of winning /losing
the subtlest of all the sublime that in every heartbeats chant,
love to be a work of art that  pleases you, in me present,
5.
Help me from within, in my dissolution as colors,varied
be the painter too and to become that work of art pleases you.

The world passes by as I look across the courtyard, I stop to see the dry world passing by.
Kids riding their hoverboards, men and women making their way to their destinations,
all this with man-made machines shrieking the brakes to halt;
Funny are these DNA-embedded beings contending over who is richest, strongest and most influential.
This is where I am.

Wrapped up in your arms, fingers running everywhere;
The moist soft touches, blowing kisses in the air,
The warmth of your body that sets fire to even the cold October winds,
This is where I want to be.

The quilt that kept me warm has gone frosty,
The hair that ran like silk has gotten old,
The gentle squeeze on my hip stays forgotten.
Ripples of pleasure turned to pain, as I look back, that’s all I gained.
Looking at the dry world pass by; This is where I am, This is where I want you to be.

you mustn't be so impatient my child
our time will come
you know the numbers are limited
we will be leaving soon
I promise you
and the adventure that awaits us
will be beyond our imagination
we will be kings
and they will love us
because we are what they strive to be
but it cannot be rushed
we must move slowly
they will not even realize that we have saved them
and in a thousand years
it will be all ours
as their species fades to relics
now come inside after the earth sets
and just remember
we shall be there
before the next eclipse

Look, I never said I was that smart.
I say stupid stuff all the time.
It's not like I'm always awake.

I'm rewriting my life story.
Impossible?
Maybe.
But we all wish some parts of our lives were different.

I'm rewriting my DNA make my skin less red, my spine less curved, my mind less distracted, to make my body hurt less.

I'm rewriting my backstory, one where I didn't worry about much other than my life at home. I never told anybody how dangerous my life used to be...

Your average human body has hair, a head, arms, legs, a torso, hands and feet, eyes, ears, a brain and heart...

But if my body is made of music, are my arms mallets? Are my legs the legs of a piano?

Is my heart the drum that my feet will always follow? The metronome that my body will always follow?

Is my DNA coded in sheet music?

Are my hands the baton? Are my fingers the keys? Is my spine a xylophone, each vertebrae a singular key?

Fact: The average human body will eventually narrow down to only 207 bones. Are my 207 bones each a separate instrument? All part of the orchestral body,

--This STAGE!

If they say music never dies, do I die?

Does my soul live on generations after I am gone? Will people still remember me?

If my body is made of music...

Will you still listen?
Even if the song is over?

My friends like to make jokes about how I only date guys that look gay
Don't laugh, because it's partially true
I like long hair,
That's probably problem number one,
But I just want something to run my fingers through, something to braid when I'm bored

It's also probably because I fall in love with musicians
My ideal man is Roger from Rent
A guitar playing, napkin lyric writing heroine addict
Yes, I fell in love with him when I was 12
Sweet addiction,
Cigarettes and leather were always my thing

How horrible the plot
the hem, the haw
of the incessantly violent
torture ****
   How sad the politic
the row, the scorn
the media howl, the noise
the storm
           We are drifting in a sea
         of bobble head puppets
         backstabbing, mass murdering
         mask-faced tyrants
         and we are loosing the battle
         before it's even begun
            So go ahead now
         and trade in your votes
         sell off your rights
         buy a backfiring gun
            Because nothing is worse
         than trying to reverse evolution
         and you can't crawl back
         into the womb of your Mother
         once you've destroyed
         the primordial ooze
         of creation's lubrication
         for a dollar and a cheapened dream's
         inflation

"A flea has smaller fleas that on him prey, and these have smaller still to bite em , and so proceed as infinitum" ~ johnathon swift!