You say art is alive,
and yet here we are.

Perfectly sculpted,
sure.
Precisely detailed,
of course.
Objects all the same.

Don't you see us looking back?
Gazing into me,
What do you see?

Concepts,
ideas,
philosophies,
reflections.

Reflections.
That's it.
Isn't it?

Wanting me to want you;
needing me to need you.
Holding your hand,
no matter how heavy it gets.

It's tiring,
reminding you what you already know.
Existing for more than your pleasure,
being more than a mirror,
just.. being.

I think it's enough.
No.
I know that it is.
Doubt only creeps in
when you look at me.

I am human.
I am a universe of my own.
When I feel your stare,
why can't you feel mine?
Have you already forgotten?

Your pupils are no blacker than mine,
no less of a lens to see myself in.
Don't you see us looking back!

Every time your eyes meet mine,
I see you.
I simply see you.
It isn't difficult,
nor should it be.

You were right.
Art is alive,
and I am no exception.

women don't know how to love
and neither do men
it's a mean world
it's a cold one
full of children
who've got the bends,
coming up too fast

yes my bedroom windows open but at least it’s not my heart and yes i still leave the light on in case you see it in the dark  yes I know you have to pass it when you drive home alone but I’m not certain anymore if your seeing someone
I wish I could past my test just to lose my drivers license over drug driving ticket that i got just to say I broke the law because with my feet on the pedal and my hand on the door nothing will ever hurt as much as losing the movement I felt when I was in yours
So I’ll sit pretty, in the passenger seat just like I did before yes you’ll touch my skin while I weep a little more hoping in my head you love me and I’ll always be yours because you ****** me there too many times for you to be unsure?
Well you’ll ask me where to? And I’ll say to the stars because the destination is never enough, however far yes I’ll end up in the back seat naked in your palms because if I take my clothes off you’ll remember it’s ours
But as we come to the end. There’s not enough speed in your car for our final destination til’ death do us part
Yes we are Bonny and Clyde but more rogue because you said forever and now you’re just a ghost I hope you remember me that night when I loved you the most because I finally took the steering wheel and drove into a post

Oh eye, of a day gone by in ease
How I used to radiate light, now you are a messenger of gray.
You have a face of winter winds.
You never stay too long in the lighted center.
Don't you remember the dreams we've had?
In the world beyond the dust?
No, light does not come often from the lawful self, but is rather from knowledge or wisdom met with a hundred mercies.
My spirit is too diverse in colors to be seen as one light.
My creation does not lie in the fixation of a white or golden light, rather its creativity is seen in how I design.
My beauty is more than a point, it is as a flower held in front of a point.  Only by its being there does the point recognize the flower's value.
How I wish to be blessed with the point that my flower can hold it.
Hardly a petal is accepted, what an aged face I've become.
My own inner spirit must combine with my body to make beauty, which then must pass through my own acceptance - how hard it is.
Something's always afoul.
I should give up and say there's no such thing as beauty in an eye.
I am to be the saddest face if I behold your seas of bliss repeatedly.
A true smile comes from the Earth beneath me.
With enough shaking, it turns my heart to joy.
But it doesn't show on my skin.
There is no beauty in men.

Oh, men.

How we lend our ears to the siren's song

Just to realize

that the siren's wrong

Many men make declarations of love when they want to make love,

But rare is the man whose love remains true

when the consequences of ******* are brought to his attention.

If you are a man, but
we share no blood between us,
if you are a man, but
are no mentor of mine,
do not tell me how I've made you proud, for
I consider that to be out of line.

More fickle than the seasons
fragile like thawing ice

attached with a firm grip
clutching like a baby’s hand.

Desperate but never dangerous
susceptible yet not defenceless
acquiescent, though a fool.

They are the simpleton’s
that embrace counterfeit fables,
illusions of promise

And at the end
that makes them break