Tears welled in the mourning of everything unwritten.

The mind's starvation is the stagnation of the imagination.

Survival has been no serenade.

Scattering amplitudes and galactic momentum horizons prove that observation needs a proof, so what does trying to make up on observation do?
It is like trying to peer in another universe.
This is what consumed me trying to come up with theories in physics.
Yet it is still done today, although the theorists have quite selective imaginations.
Even in peer reviewed papers, any theory without evidence is treated just as a child's imagination.

The graviton is so allusive.
We observe that it must exist due to larger observations, yet we don't have the measuring device to see it scatter.
Even if we could, it may create what would keep it shrouded.
I conclude that until I observe something big, I will not try to observe its qualities, and if I notice something small, I'll remind myself that it came from something big.

“What is a poem?”
My English teacher asks,
then barely pauses before answering his own question.
Lists of rules and reasons
spill from his mouth,
so many that he’s cut off by the bell.

I refrain from raising my hand
and telling him that anything can be a poem
if you want it to be.

The painting on the wall,
the fleeting peace that comes
from looking at the moon,
the little boy whose hands are already rough
and calloused with use.

Nothing makes a poem
but our minds and thoughts and wishes
for “poem” is just a word
but what it gives us is ours to decide.

Maybe even this is a poem,
though my English teacher would disagree.

Do you see?

The winds
aroar at the
shivering woods.

Do you see?

Sang the flames
of what
I've sinned.

Here, stay,

see

me.

And, like my name,
distorted

I am:

a sun behind

the moon.

If my poem tells a lie, will the world give me a truth?
I am alive but I do not feel I am alive.
I feel like I have lost my soul.
My soul of my life.
My soul of my imagination.
My soul of the day I feel I never get it at all.

If my poem tells me a truth, will I believe that the world tells me a lie?
I am alive but I feel like I am a loser.
A loser of my life.
A loser of my imagination.
A loser of the day I feel I get what I want it at all.

If my poem tells me everything about my life, will you think I tell a lie and the world give you a truth?

Inventing a game
Old as stone
Following a rabbit down a hole
By exchanging a word, a world
Unheard passing of a planet
Quiet passing of a plane
Unseen passing of a bird, a soul
Heading to his nest, to rest
Untroubled breaking of the wave
followed by her sister, her brother
Continuous art
Connected
through breath and stars
Calling a silent name
Celebrating silent fame

Dungeons and dragons and horses and wagons.
What you imagine is your fantasy.
Adventures of magic.  Some happy, some tragic.
Whoever the hero, it's your time to be!

in  D & D!  Let us go play an RPG!
Let's forget about reality!
No responsibilities!

No chores to do here,
we eat and drink brewed beer;
I have this scepter you call a broom.
Don't look with your eyes dear,
O' just open your mind clear;
Open the sky wide, take flight from this room!

in  D & D!  Let us go play an RPG!
Let's forget about reality!
No responsibilities!

What a beautiful word
If your dream will come true
And you realize you never sleep again
You will get what you want
Like your childhood playing with many toys in your room
O, let me play!
In this poem
I’ll play my word in my dream
I’ll play with you
In a bed
With a pillow
With a doll
With a sword
With a dream
With all my imagination
What a beautiful word
You are my dream
The dream of my world
Playing in playing out
My happiness will beat many sadness lines in the saddest word for the saddest world
O, let me play!
Let me play in a verse
Let me!
Let me!
You and me

i saw your face in a dream of mine
your hair so familiar, your gentle grin
your skin softly lit, your words blurry,
but meaningful
i fell in love immediately,
there was no such thing as time
i wanted to make you mine
but for some reason i couldn’t speak
my lips and wary limbs felt weak
being in your presence made me meek
but it was alright, because your voice
filled the space where mine was supposed
to meet

i don’t remember your face in
this conscious life
but your pacific ambience lingers
in the folds of my mind

i hope to meet you one day
so i can admire your face
and treasure your rambles
outside the subconscious traces
of my lonely imagination