A wish,
It’s a piece of dirt in your hand
Not a gem, not a clean crystal
Holding the rainbow inside.
It’s just a clump of dirt,
Scattered in the palm of your hand
Moving between your fingers
As it were alive, breathing,
Warming your hands and you heart
When you’re cold at night
When your thoughts are scattered
On the corners of your brain
And nothing seems to link them together
Except, the touch of that cold dirt
The idea of holding something in your hand
The wish,
The immortal pieces of dirt
Waiting to be transformed
And depending on your fingers, to change,
To morph into the most beautiful ball of dirt-
Your, perfect ball of dirt
Your idea of wish,
Your idea of clinging on to something.

Yes,
it may be a known opinion.
But it has a new form.
Someone that's willing to speak up.

Yes,
it may be a known idea.
But it has been taken into action.
Someone that's willing to do it.

Yes,
it may be a known remark.
But it has been said.
Someone that cares enough to say it.

Depression, is an infection, a collection of imperfections magnified by a clouded mind beyond the point of corrections.  Festering inside yourself hating. Laying there waiting, in the depths of your core, sanctioned by Satan. Anticipating, when your courage goes vacant, and your ego runs adjacent, and your mind becomes complacent. Before you can catch your second wind, depression sets in.   Telling you lies about what others are thinking. Leveraging your weaknesses, to make you a weakling. And you wont have an inkling.  Even thought you are loved, you feel unloved because you heart is in  glare; instead of protecting what is pure, its projecting things that are there, and reflecting your feeling you feel out of fear. about what  others think, or why they don't care – get stuck in your own thoughts with no time to sphere.

Instead of asking for permission rather beg for forgiveness this is my life you'd understand if you lived this my heart bare witness to what other shouldn't witness learned from my lessons with the quickness started making moves on these misfits moving figures with logistics made moves left my imprint on modern day blueprints and morse code on these infants killing with instinct in an instant while making moves in sequence my frequency is frequent

As our world's collide,
Our bodies caused a storm.
Our minds made chaos.
In a sea of emotion,
We await each other.

The idea
The idea that we can be together
The idea that I can hold your hand
as we watch the sun set and rise
The idea of driving at night together
Rushing pass the lights that illuminates both of our personalities
The idea of being with you is something
That tortures my body and mind
It interferes with my own reality
Creating my vision, less and less applicable
and as I take off these clouded glasses
I can finally see
I'm not in love with you
I'm in love with the Idea of you