My city has 4 sides and those sides have millions of people with two eyes and a nose and a brain that gives them the power to decide the future and look to the past for lessons but staring in the rear view mirror will cause you to miss blessings

Why are we so in denial when we're clearly unhappy. And then we're hesitant to change,
I swear we as humans (especially me) are all kinda twisted and demented

The pressure to please
Is a CID, Creatively Induced disease
It hurts when you pour
Your heart and soul into your art
And the audience rejects it
It feels like a bullet tearing you apart

The self doubt sets in
"What did I do wrong? "
Can't they see what's within?"
"Am i losing my way? "
"Should I give up today? "

So to offset this problem be your own solution
Understand that you can't please everyone, and to try is a date with a mental institution
Just do what you love, and others will see the glow
Now when you've become great, all but you will know

I have left this marbled host of the future's tired, brilliant minds at a quarter to four in the morning.
I am still and bewitched from the latest spell of writer's mania. I have reached the highest point of the neighboring smokies.
It's advised that when descending from a hike, one should proceed with caution in order to avoid straining.
So I slowly observe the surroundings I have detached myself from for the past couple of hours. I line my psyche in a goldenrod shade of velvet.
Simultaneously comforted and stimulated.
The observational sky is inky, like the residue resting in between the lines on my finger tips.
The person striding next to me and I have made the conscious decision to enjoy the silence.
We step in unison, their gaze wanders, but their intent is fixed on the destination.
Uncalled for precipitation is falling in a quixotic manner. It is now three minutes past four and there are cardinals chirping.
I bid my companion from this stroll a goodnight. As the elevator closes they earnestly compliment the magnitude of my pupils.
I had been complaining about sleepless nights, but now I am being tucked into bed by the nocturnal kind's ways.
It is now twenty-seven minutes past four.

Gently painted on the evening sky
By a Hand, infinitely Divine.
The orange orb rests assuredly--
And of its supports to be seen, no vine.

Its reddish-yellow mixes sublimely with sky-blue--
Now it flickers clean-white, now golden-black--
A truly-- deeply fascinating view;
An arrow drawn to never miss its mark

I think it scrapes the epitome of beauty
Since it encompasses a beholder's eye
With a tolerable show of bubbling fury--
The sun-- setting behind the evening sky

In it I see-- a requiem for brighter days,
a regret written but well expunged;
a solemn oath for darker years,
and a replying breath before it is plunged
(In a sea of darkness)

Poor little fly
Fighting just to survive
No one saw it's demise but me
As he struggled not to freeze
First he flew in little hops
But to soon that stops
Then he walked in endless circles in the Sun's rays
But soon that too gave way
Now he lays frozen stiff
I wonder if me seeing made a diff
That this little flys last moments on earth
Didn't go unnoticed, and to a little poem had given birth

This poor little flys fight
Is a lot like my own sad sight
Wonder if anyone sees my slow decent
How this life is leaving me bent
Wonder if when I finally freeze and die
Will anyone notice and wonder why
Or see how I fought to survive
Just like that little fly

Girl No. 1 wears her jeans cuffed and hates everyone but the Jets. Her voice is honey-thick around biting words. Smiling does not come easy to her. She wears her face like a mask—big glasses, big eyes, big quiet. When I see her, she lifts her hand in a grim wave, delta creases in her brown palm. Her excuse for her silence is that she’s boring, but she’s not. She dots her eyes with tiny stars and listens to German orchestra whenever she can. She thinks she has buried herself well, but bits of her still protrude from the topsoil, aching to be known.

Girl No. 2 is grey flannel and deliberate sentences. Her hair covers her face, yet when she speaks about trees and animals and the hole torn in our atmosphere by ultraviolet, ultraviolent rays, she is thunder. I gave her lotion for her cracked hands one time. When we smiled at each other after, we knew at once we were part of the same club. Girl No. 2 never corrects people when they forget her name. They say Kaitlyn, Kaleigh, Katie…let the word drop as if it were no more important than a used napkin. I hate it. I pick her used napkin name from the floor and smooth it over my lap. I say it right and she replies, with perfect seriousness, thank you: Thank you for the correct pronunciation of my identity.

Girl No. 3 is a hard one. Look at her once and you’ll see Maybelline lashes and a glass-cutting face. Look twice and you’ll see more. The sag of her shoulders, the stinging weariness of posturing for people far beneath her. I startle her. I’m too inquisitive for her taste. She does not want the world knowing her mother drank three liters of ***** before driving off a bridge, that her favorite color is celery green, or that anorexia and anxiety stalked her through the halls of high school like a pair of vultures. She wants to stay in her castle of ice, but it has imprisoned her. You poet, she teases me. You right-brained heap of color and sensitivity. You’re too much. I don’t know what to do with you. I ask her who she is and she recites her answer. 130, 125, 2315. But this girl is more than her IQ, her weight, or her SAT score, and when I tell her so, her Maybelline lashes are ruined.

a woman once drowned from lonesome fear:
the kind of sickness
you cannot hear.

she toiled with the time she'd lost
willing to take the brunt
of their cost.

the last word that parted from her lips
was "the fire burned my heart alive,
a pain that I cannot survive."

and the tiller came to take her away.

when the tiller comes to grasp your hand
what will he take from you?
what will he demand?

there is no value to devotion
if you're the only one
swimming in the ocean

so whatever sets your chest aflame
there is no fire
you cannot tame

In this world I'm an unknown,
Though my presence isn't fully ignored.
I'm present in this ebb and flow of life,
Interesting that it only took one step.
Simple yes,
But it's difficulty lies in the fear of it.
It's all one big step,
Scary, frightening and a little bit exciting.
It all begins with that step,
You just choose whether or not to go through with it.