Snowflakes are the perfect metaphor for people.
Each minuscule,Crystallized,phenomenon  that floats down from the sky has its own unique pattern,which they perform in their own manner.

But from the cold window pane, surrounded by the frost, a little girl with the eyes that glow with the depth of universal love, casting off stardust as a diamond casts fire and they glisten like embers of a fire in a desert night, glancing upwards they reflect the heavens above.

She sees we all have the same structure from the many around as there is.
No one will notice the differences we hold, unless they care enough to stop in the crisp, white, shining covering that transforms the landscape making it a magical land full of wonder and undiscovered mysteries.

So you see, snowflakes are a perfect metaphor for people because all we are is simply majestic beings, filled with passion, mystery, but with vulnerability, waiting to be discovered.

12 a.m.
     the rain stutters against my window-- erratic, wild. the curtains are drawn, the lights extinguished, but to my eardrums, it's as if a symphony of heartbeats are thrumming in counterpoint to my own. the noise swells in my head, an unrelenting crescendo, ffff, the windows shivering. then is fades to white noise, a lullaby to lull me to restless sleep, haunted by a thousand heartbeats overwhelming the staccato in my chest.
7 a.m.
     the sun is in a coffin of clouds. a cityscape bathed in the heavy blue of night swims before my eyes. we must still be locked in a moment before sunrise, before even last night's twilight. still, the rain drums around me. head cottony with sleep, it climbs up and up, inch by inch, drowning me in streets trapped in endless night.
4 p.m.
     people say rain leaves the world clean and new. In the limbo between raindrops and clear skies, this city is grey. it's as if the clouds that papered the sky have fallen and blanketed building and sidewalks instead. colors are muted until my city is a palette of mud and smoke and watered down dust. i am a tissue-paper doll in this diorama of concrete and glass and steel. the rain has washed me away as well.

The re-echoes of words you once said bounce around my body from bone to bone, trying to find a place to escape
And The chattering sound of your words rattling around inside me
keep me up at night and I can hear people talk about the pushing on my ribcage
they can see the words imprinted onto my skin and they won't shut up with their constant conversation
about the time you told me you loved me
And the words rip through my skin like the arrows stabbing into the props you practice with
hit or miss but you hit me Everytime And now that I think about it I was only one of your props to throw out after awhile

don't treat them like they're rocks:
they can stand strong, but they need support too.

don't treat them like that forgotten garbage bag near your backyard:
they do not reek, and they are beautiful, indisposable.

NO! don't treat them like fragile flowers either, but rather:
treat them like humans who have been hurt, who dislike pain as much as the next person, and who need and want respect.

Dames dimeless during durations of
duress, unless  uniform wardrobes
in cuneiform earlobes eloping in last
gasps of breath, breathed by an opposite
***  on a raft drafted and crafted by
bureaucrats that sat upon rat traps.

The fat cats gasp under last laughs.
They can yap about the fallen all day
and paid based on grades in a vicious
cycle of buy - sell - trade. They caved in
as Persians sigh at the fading world
hurled beneath convuluted swirls of black pearls.

False emotions is what you gave
Metaphors you would say
Tears that i forgave
Memories that i saved
So tell me wny i should trust you
Give you any part on what i do?

The words were stuck like a chicken bone in her throat.
They wouldn't go anywhere,
They wouldn't go away back to the hell they were made
But they also wouldn't crawl out
They were lodged
They liked it where they were
They were safe
They couldn't cause anymore harm
They couldn't become a reality
But they could be felt
They were known and couldn't stew
And the feelings that came with them couldn't
Be shoved back down to be ignored.
To be left alone with no one to care for them.
That's what they needed, to be cared for
To be seen, to be heard to be felt.
The feelings
the words
The pain.
That's what they needed.
To be held gently,
To be loved and cared for
But they didn't get it
Because she was afraid
She was afraid of what they might do to her
They weren't going to love and care for her
She felt they were going to hurt her
She didn't know what was going to happen
If she poured them out and laid them on the table
And carefully examined and loved each one.
Tears might fall
Breathing may be lumbered
Shaking may take over
And shame might settle in.
So she swallows them back down
Into the bottle where they're not looked upon
And screws on the cap as tight as she can
And then new begins a new day.
But each new day brings more feelings and thoughts and words
And eventually the bottle can't hold them anymore and it shatters
And they make their way back up to her throat again.
And the cycle repeats.
She's stuck, and so are they.

this is a love story told in metaphors,
because words can’t say how gravity
pulls on planets and suns and stars,
but they’ll be gone before they touch.

this is a love story told in metaphors.
giving voice to drowning in an ocean
of red will never be possible – despite
our myths of old, we’re only human.

this is a love story told in metaphors:
we are of fire and ice, forever apart;
of twilight, when night and day strain
for each other but always fall short;
of science, faith, and all in between;
of concepts of “peace” and “human”;
of two things that shall never coexist.

this is a love story told in metaphors
because i do not know why i am still
reaching for you when we’ll always be
stopped by something greater than us.

we are a love story told in metaphors.
outside of words, our souls will surely
explode.

You are poetry.
Every square centimeter of your existence
Is it’s own iambic pentameter .
& I can’t help but notice
the way your smile never fails to rhyme with your cheekbones.

Cobblestones, colorful, decorate paths
Like tiny, petite mosaics in swaths
They lead to something dreadfully fathomable
What it is and what it wants are all but unaffordable.

I walk along the road, a naïve maiden blue
Stretching past the town, it was sun-lit too.
A moment to ponder came in my mind
A second to escape, an instant to die.

Everything goes on just as it is.
Grasses of evergreen hug and kiss.
Aqua skies unfold their maps
As I wander still, not knowing of the gaps.

Soon after, the masses become grey
Horrifying red splashes me away.
I come face-to-face with one I'll never forget
A beauty at its shell, a gun in its net.

Captivating, electrifying beams and grins
They capture a lady's soft heartstrings.
They twist them into vines of terror, all fine
And make them into fishing lines, thus meant to dine.

What may be is what you believe
A last solemn moment recalls the eve.
The days of sweet, blithe roses are gone
In place are thorns, emerged and raw.