Some people are holograms,
They appear to be there but in reality they're long gone..
Some people are mirrors,
They see things that you don't see about yourself and they love those things.
Some people are artists,
And other people are the art
Few people are both
Because not everyone has a pure heart
These are just my views and opinions
I have these little Cathy theories I believe in,
Like how.. The Universe is always leaving us signs
Some people accept the good and the bad,
Most people make up their own signs sometimes even toxic people come with the signs.

Some people are lovers,
Two types; heartbroken & in love
Some people give up,
You did, I won't...
Some people are platonic.
Some people...
But not us.

"What must we endure?"
Cried the naive child.

"When must we endure?"
Lamented the cynical adult.

"How must we endure?"
Worried the desperate parent.

"Why must we endure?"
Questioned the lazy innovator.

"Whom must we endure?"
Rallied by those who dodge the questions.

Each year when time
changes forward,
I intentionally forget
to switch the old,
reliable clock,
finding comfort each morning
when reading its deceptive hands
to appreciate that
there is always
an extra hour left
to live,
to sleep,
to experience.

In the year 2015,
instantaneous expectations
condition behaviors exponentially
that veteran social media robots
efficiently reduce their average
characters in texts and posts
as often as the characters
who exist in their memoirs.

I fear that my insight
will be interpreted as "deep"
and in a sense it may be true
since I can feel the loose dirt
being shoveled over my head
by critics and hypocrites
who passively preach
while staring down:
that to be a normal person,
one must close their mind
and rather than retaining
creative ideas,
they should bury them.

Time, as the bookkeeper,
who is perfectly punctual
yet pays little attention to pace,
often lets sands fall quickly
in the eternal hourglass.

This patient negligence
turns material possessions to antiques
occasionally handled but not bought;
turns shrinking bodies to ash or dust
that settles beneath the infinite grains;
and turns short-lived words to quotes,
vividly and enthusiastically chattered
by our fragile grandchildren.

If a single sand could beckon to Time,
which would it beg to preserve?

If the shadows were not bound
by the sciences of light,
sometimes I wonder and fear
if it too would leave me behind,
because I do not fear
being separated in the dark
where mercy blinds the eyes.
I am instead terrified
that when the darkness lifts
and the world illuminates with clarity,
I will be standing alone.

Dust settles on stones,
Turned and burned to gain
The gems grabbed in greed.
Then steal again, held in hand,
Hot from the heat of another---
                                                                                What
Is really obtained in this pursuit
Of provisions, power, and pride,
Where “my mountain is bigger”
Beats “can we climb it together”;
One falls, the other wins.
                                                                                Did
You intend to leave a man,
Homeless and deprived,
Leaving outside a foreclosure sign
In such despicable design
To claim “what is mine”?
                                                                                You
Fought and kicked down
Enemies, spitting at the body
To establish what once envied
Now become reality through
Knuckles bruised onto faces red.
                                                                                Gain
All that you want,
Despite the taunted
That will haunt those who fell
To the ground underneath
Your powerful foot.
                                                                                In
Less stressful childhood times,
Remember sitting during lunch
With a pack of gummy bears,
Sorting out shapes and colors,
Asking, “would you like another?”
                                                                                The
Selfishness has grown greatly
Through each passing year
Planting the seeds of tomorrow...
Contemplating this newfound greed:
Is selflessness near its
                                                                                End?

In a universe of acquaintances,
My eyes happen to meet yours,
A smile forms from your frown,
As for a moment we recognize.
I watch you raise your hand
Like an alien lifting an extension,
Making a motion for friendship.
I follow your moments,
Afraid of breaking the norms
Set in place by confusing creatures,
Colliding two palms together:
Rough and brief.
Yet between the empty crevices
On our palms, wind blows through
Easily without obstacle.
So close, yet so distant,
And with that action, apparently
We are friends...
But I don't know you,
You don't know me.
We just share our obscure gestures,
Turn around, walk away,
Fulfilling a temporary satisfaction
That we are not alone.
I imagine this ritual strange
In the eyes of aliens,
Watching from a distance
Not as far as the space
Between our palms.

We all derive from the same paper
that which is forcefully folded,
patiently pressed and
carefully creased.

We all speak through the same pen
that wishes for stencils,
grimacing at unpracticed,
crooked lines.

We all take action with the same scissors,
cutting away from the whole
to create paper people
holding hands.

We all are constructed in the same accordion,
snipping away the background
that falls like snowflakes
to create identity.

We all fear severing the same sections
that conjoin one being to another,
waiting with knives in our hands,
anticipating to cut.

We all fall from the separation,
slicing the connections that bind us,
sacrificing our grip
that suspends us in safety.

We all meet at the bottom
of the same paper shredder,
lost in the screams of its blades,
obsessing ourselves to be
broken pieces of an individual,
but forgetting that we paper people
once all derived from the same paper.