Wonder is knowing that your questions will never be asked,
and that the thoughts that make you shiver are just your biggest dreams,

Plans are what we bring to our hearts when we are deceived,
By the maps laid out by our own two feet,

Hope is when the sand sinks into the sea, letting you walk free.
Love is the sound that lingers in sweet nothings, with whispers of enchanting declarations,

Fear is to be stripped of all your rocks and bricks you've laid out, to be senseless in absolute innocence,

Sadness is the forbidden things that crack our very soul, the things that play with your eyes in absolute silence,

Joy is the cherish made of the winter cold, to find the good in all icy things,

But what are you? What am I?

We are the the words that no one spoke as no voice could do us justice. We are the smiles that never crack on all the shy faces.
We are the smoke that rises in the air when candles are burnt out because no matter what you do we are still lingering about.

Words    
                                                                ­        on
                                            a            
                                                                ­      white
                                              screen    
                                                                ­          .
                                                how      
      ­                                                           do
                                    you            
            ­                                                              eve­n
                                                 know    
                                                        ­           I'm
                                           real        
                                                                ­     ?

i'm not sure that i want to live anymore
i'm not sure that i'd call it suicidal
i'm not sure that i wouldn't call it suicidal
i'm not sure if it's fair to say i'm a risk to myself
i'm not sure i'd ever go through with it
i'm not sure it's fair to ignore it
i'm not sure that i want it acknowledged
i'm not sure about showing weakness
i'm not sure about showing vulnerability
i'm not sure i want to let anybody close
i'm not sure i don't want to let anybody close
i'm not sure i can handle somebody knowing my soft side
i'm not sure i can handle somebody accepting me
i'm not sure about anything
i'm not even sure what this is

it's not a poem, really
it's not a statement
i'm not sure it's anything at all

it just is

and will leave you with tears and just go?
Why is it so easy for some to fling,
and later ignore your feeling?
Why is it so easy for some to tell a lie,
and then leave you with a question 'why'?
Why is it easy for some to call you special,
when you are treated just like normal?
Why is it easy for some to say they love you,
but they don't show that they do?
Why is it easy for some to surrender,
when they've promised to love you forever?


*-Steph Dionisio, June 06, 2016

What is this bizarre strange artificial magic that

Surrounds us in 3D neon colors man-made

Amidst this dream theory of some sort

Of tasty goods that await me (not bait)

Smashed in between two slabs of meat

That are thick hands which are said hold the

Way to get all we could want or need

This absolute promise that it's all worth it

Being placed before me only just to see

I hold my sandwiched slice of meat

With cheese and pickles high

And shout for joy that it's mine to eat!

she told me they are the in between stages. when one era of your life is over, but the next hasn't yet begun. it's a place of change, of uncertainty, of questions. of waiting. i thought of god for some reason. maybe the absence of god is actually the presence of him. maybe it's the spaces between words that matter the most. maybe it's the way the piano sounds when it's not being played. maybe truth only makes itself known in the absence of answers. after all, plants do grow in sidewalk cracks.

Let's say
Hypothetically
Someone was
Keeping score
And I had a
Perfect
Unsurpassed
Record.

In that case
There would be
Three hundred and twelve
Pieces of paper
Somewhere
In my house with
Five to thirteen lines of
Text on each of them.

And then suppose
Five and thirteen averaged
Out to somewhere between
Seven and eight.

Then do the math
And tell me what seven or eight
Times three hundred and twelve is
And then think about how
For each line of text on each
Sheet of paper
There is another
Sheet of paper in some
Binder somewhere
Or a pile in the righthand
Corner of my room.

And remember
I'm just one person.

And then think
About the butterfly effect.

Do you know
What happens
In the mail room
When you're not around?

Do you know
Who uses the copier
In the dead of night
Or the morning dawn?

Do you know
Where we go
When we
Die?

Or even
Why we're
All alive
To begin with?

It's sure
As hell

(Or should I say
As unsure as hell
Because no one can
Agree on anything
Even a universal a
Concept as hell)

That we're not living
To make paper
To print out our
Personal whims on.

And then think
About the butterfly effect.