if you asked me to write about something -
the stars, sadness, darkness, death.
i could. and i would.
i would give it to you, clad in astroids for armor,
star-spangled, criss-crossing in between sunbeams and rainbows.
i would give it to you as a wilted flower on a plate,
colorless save for the red of the rotting apple -
the surrealist dream, the existentialist crisis
of oblivion and everything in between.

ask me to write about what i'm feeling now,
ask me to write about my emotions, my thoughts.
i can't.
for i know my thoughts are as different from yours
as a solar eclipse in the andromeda galaxy,
as hope in my vacuum heart.

and that's just the thing.
my "red" will never be the same as your "red",
my "night never the same as your "night".
and my words, are far from adequate
in telling you what i think
of me,
of you,
of us,
of the world.
it is a fundamentalist problem,
a human flaw,
an error in communication,
an inherent imperfection,
a fatalistic trait,
a damning hamartia
that we as humans
will never overcome.
words are powerful,
pictures are more so,
touch just can't be surpassed.
but none will never be enough
to address everything that is as it is,
everything in our heads,
everything.

we are all alone in this world.