It must be a curse to feel so deeply.
Smog bodies with their ****** energies
and frivolous frequencies
annoy me on an exponential level and
bring me out of an amorous dream
back into this ****** reality
where light bounces off bodies of darkness
and darkness creates light from nothingness.

Humility is always the word.

So many L's,
Life Lessons Learned from Losses Left on Loop,
but when you collect enough,
you make Double Use(W's) out of an Undaunted Understanding...

When Will We Win?
What Were We Wrongfully Weary of?
Why?

And after realizing that there are those and they's and things that will never have the luxury of order to give life meaning,
a conscience for consciousness to coincide with itself,
or the ability to feel at all for lack of a decent heart,
you see every moment as a cause for celebration.
It must be a blessing to feel so deeply

I know you're talking
I hear you

I know you're watching
I can feel your stare

I know you notice
When I leave the room

But it's how it feels
When all you are
Exists but it's not alive

I know you're talking
But I don't know why

I know you're watching
But why do you care

I know you notice
But why is it me

Slowly I stopped living
But I still existed
I was still breathing

Heaven or Hell...its not a choice many sit and ponder but when I stop and start to think my mind begins to wonder.
But more it is a path to choose, a choice I have to make, walk beside an angel or stride the rebels gate.
Now with all fairness no side is evil, No,  just two different spectrum two different paths to show.
One has been walked by many but none this young in age,
the other is unwritten its story is torn from the page.
  Down the first path lies a mountain so still and so high. Which brings me to my next question, what lays on the other side ?
Does there lay a hidden cliff veiled by mystical powers or does there lay a valley filled with the most beautiful of flowers ?
Down the second path lies a man whose large in stature who seems to want to keep me from writing this books next chapter.
Between the man and the path lays chains of three. But who here is truly trapped the man the path or me ?

He told me once he would name our daughter after the places we had been or flowers he picked for me.

He said he would name her Carolina, not Caroline, and he would remember those humid summer nights we spent watching the sunset.

He said he'd name her Daisy, because he knew my favorite was flowers and he would buy her anything she desired to make her as happy as me.

He told me this once, a long time ago, back when we were young and before we really thought about life. Back before I knew what I wanted and *** to react when he said he wanted kids.

I told him I hoped our son has his green eyes and his sandy blonde, but turning darker each year, hair.

I told him I hoped our son had his spark and his sarcastic smile so I could always remember he had the good pieces of his father, the parts I laughed about.

I told him that before things changed, before we both spun out of control and closer to the flames.

Now we sit on opposite sides of the country and we talk to different people about kids and love. And we wonder, where things could have been if we hadn't become so lost in ourselves  for once.

You seem to leave scars on the inside of my flesh , they cut from the inside out , not the other way around .

Being with you is the opposite
of everything I once desired,

but can I say I’ve never been happier
with something I didn’t want.

We set a paper ship
upon the waters
in hope it will never know a storm
we have bared of our past
In hopes that maybe to gather
they could fair better than us
as clear skies graced our thought
now storm clouds loom heavy.
It's never as we planned
but never our fault.

Those paper ships slip
from between our fingertips
before we are ready to set sail
We watch them bob
upon traitorous waters
standing upon stormy land
and know only,
when they are lost at sea
that our casting off
has failed

Under moonlit nobility gets beyond our controls and storms
we seldom grasp, the ships sink faster than the images we have lives since painted within our thoughts.
It all comes full circle in the end

Full circle begins
when weeping upon a midnight beach
waiting for the debris to float in
To sit upon the sand
and not understand
how paper boats can't float
without sails
We set them out upon stormy seas
Hoping them fine and fair weather
only to see them smashed upon the shore
with no guidance from above
just a single feather
Buried deeply in their chest
a single hope
they could fly
now they lay broken
upon a distant shore
dying under a whisper
of... *I tried