I sit here engrossed with cracked reflections of myself, attending the interpretation that I am a lost cause.
Contemplation of the future captures my scrutiny, yet brings me to a future of pandemonium’s obscurity and thoughtlessness.
It seems the more I think the more compulsive I become to hunt this incapable game.
Grim introspection moves swiftly through my head.
Thoughts of ****** and self-immolation fill the air around me. Congesting me, forcing me to fight for one more breath, one more reason to move forward.
I feel as if these blithering thoughts are drawing me to the bottom.
My conclusions are empty to this world I live in, launching me away from this place.
Like a rocket I’ll sore past it's entirety
I’ll extend past the highest peak on the tallest mountain.
Until I pass the azure.
Until I share my footprints on the moon.

Love isn't spoken.
It's a silent conversation
     held in a glance,
or small gestures
     just to provide
     occasional reminders
     that you care.
Love isn't spoken.
It's sitting together
     and inching closer
     just to feel the touch
     of them against you.
Love is effort,
                concern,
       unbridled affection,
     and memorizing
     the sound of a voice
     until it becomes its own
     special kind of embrace.
No, love isn't spoken.

Speaking hurts. Thinking hurts.
Unless it's
to you, about you.

Thinking before you speak is a big thing in life. Always think before you speak. If you don't, you may hurt the wrong person or people.

If you say something without thinking because you just want to snap back at someone real fast, you may hurt the person you love the most just by the stupid response you didn't think about.

Sunday will come
Just a few days from now
An eternity to wait
To say what is long overdue

Sunday will come
And we will confess ourselves
Fear will hold us
Hope will push us closer

And on Sunday
When we both shake in emotion
My hand in yours
We will find a way to work through

The grass is speaking
The sound comes tickling me in my ears
just like his voice
When he touches the grass, it slips through
his beautiful fingers and
it touches his fingertips
in such a perfect way

We don't say a word

He lies down in the summer grass
it shapes his perfect body
and strokes his defined cheekbones

It's only him, me
and the speaking grass