The snow shivered in the heat
Tears fell from crystalline eyes
so white . . .
. . . the mountain gathered them up
and let them roll down his back to
the river . . .
. . . the river said ,"I'm overpool but I will make room for one more . . . or thousands  . . .
The crystalline tears mingled with the red mud and became blood brothers . . . and they flowed to the mighty sea . . .
. . .  "Welcome to my domain my little one's . I knew your forefathers and mothers from long ago . Here you will do my bidding as long as you stay . Here my windy friends will make froth out of you . And my big brother Sun will bake you and my sister Moon will entice you with dreams that can never be . All are here to test you , burn you , pull you apart , toss you around until you are ready to follow in your parents footprints . . .
. . . so the Sun scorched and the wind blew hurricanes in the east and typhoons in the west and the moon by night gave false hope in the way of impossible dreams and the ancient Sea watched all without saying a word . . . .
. . . then came the day the Sea was satisfied and said ,"Leap up my little ones , your day has come , ride the clouds to your new home . Some to the north , some go to the south , the rest go east and west . Take your precious gift to the land who is dying for your taste ." And one by one the tears lept into the clouds and ladened it's burdens and the winds cartied them away to the Plains and Forest and Valleys and to the Mountain Top . There the tears fell and froze and collected on the north face of the
mountain and the mountan was was glad .
"Welcome home my lost little one's . I'm so happy I could cry ." . . .  and he did .

You are the cause of your own suffering*
I tell myself everyday,
but I still bathe in silt and shame.
Rinse. Recycle. Repeat.

I tell myself everyday
how mundane it is to be redundant:
Rinse. Recycle. Repeat.
Everybody that looks at me sees

how mundane it is to be redundant.
You only get one masterpiece;
everybody that looks at me sees
that's not a rainbow, it's an oil spill.

You only get one masterpiece,
but I still bathe in silt and shame -
that's not a rainbow, it's an oil spill.
You are the cause of your own suffering.

I’m nothing but ink
I’m bleached pulp dyed blue and red
Recyclable

I have never liked the term

      "sloppy seconds"
                  
                  I believe that we renew ourselves with each love

The little black book I keep next to my journals sits on a bookshelf I made from recycled wood. A fresh coat of paint may hide a splintered past unknown to me, but that is of zero importance when refurbished trees that died for a purpose hold books containing paper collected from a different tree that is now dignified in service.

One that expands as more hot air is blown, and shrinks when cold shouldered. The little black book holds numbers without faces, but the pocket in the back holds a face that could never be confused as paint by number.
It maps out the girl I've been searching for that never deserved a page in this book of lust, only the pocket in the back that will one day accept my trust.

And the reason this little black book is kept on the recycled bookcase is because the paper is also recycled, the same as the trash that litters the pages.

Personality problem monumental
Attempts to change inconsequential

Learning to care
A constant struggle

Desperation to scream
Producing nothing but mumbles

A freshly broken heart
Can make one so humble

Mind pollution
No abatement

Dissolving solution
Emotional Contagion

Recycled love
Halfhearted statements

Am I enough?
Romantic damnation