What is love?
I believe i'm close.
Once I was the victim of love at first sight.
It was a moment of euphoric happiness.
then was that not it?
not so much the person, but more of the moment.
so in a since wouldn't you want to always find these tiny moments?
just a being in life looking for pure moments of love?
isn't that life? billions of tiny moments intrinsically one with a bigger moment?
let us find the people that give us these perfect moments and surround ourselves with them.
let us focus on the moment and thrive there, because that is when we are the happiest.
when one thinks outside they moment they begin to find sadness, or sorrow.
the past, the present, and the future, not the present as situation.
situational present is not the same as current moment because the situation or problem is brought on by the past or the future which creates sadness.
happiness is present moment that is un-situational.
stay in the moment.
that is love, life, now.
some people already live like this, unknowingly or knowingly.
it would not matter.
these few are fortunate and the found ones.
they do not frown, they do not attach.
they love, and thrive with the ones who love.
together they will change the world not purposely or knowingly.
they will change there own realities and the world will change with them.
What is love?
I believe we are close.

GOD

A bowl half full
a spoon for measure
dips into and takes
division for pleasure

The soups environment
both spoon and bowl
same as the universe
relatively so

Reality beckons
an environmental flaw
having never even existed
possibly at all

thoughts derived environment
like the grids on a map
take it all away
you’re left with the exact

Define then to me
if you found it to be
the environment fictitious
what that would mean

If reality is then all soup
the soup never divided
if then we are the soup

Why aren’t we reminded?

Why do we leave the womb?
Why
Why do we go astray into depths unknown,Only to come back with a diffrent understanding
Of what you already knew
And isolate ourselves if all we seek is company
It is the knowledge the wind wispers just out of reach
So we misinterpret it all but ask yourself
If a theory is tought in an institution
Does it make it any truer?
Truth should be defined individually by what the heart feels
Not by the ideals of your peers
So the real question is 
 What do i find true?
Does one ever find the purpose in there existence
Or do wift like leaves in the wind
In a way we're all like waves
Taking of in a burst of fury
But as soon as we reach the shallows we fall
And crash against each other,
The only shure outcome is that we'll return from where we came
And all that remains is the calm.

Dancing by,
A dead eyed darling,
As passersby cry out her praises:
"Such energy!
Such passion!"
She shrugs out a smile
As her shoulders start
Collapsing in on themselves.
Wear long sleeves
To disguise decaying flesh
And frankincense and myrrh
To disguise inevitable death,
Shaking hands with toothy monsters
And hand-made paperweight professionals
Who enter the threshold of accidentally
Pulling off a frail finger.
Pinned to a board of ages,
Chronically captured chronologically wrong:
"You seem so much older! You are so mature!"
Placing, onto fifth-grade-science-project bones,
A corset of expectations and
A garter of gold,
The tiny bird of a girl
Can't hear her songs over the
Sound of her body giving up.

Bury your wishes for me next to my corpse.

Like all others, I hated high school.
It was a scrawny waif that I remember seated at the front of the class.
I raised my hand at every question to endless ridicule,
and people whispered I was weak for trying to be "such a smart-***".

Now people think I lack brains because I own a barbell and bench.
What they don't know is that it's all an extension of my first love: Science.

Every morning, I don my hooded polyester lab coat.
I write theorems in drops of sweat on a rubber padded mat.
I experiment with the practicality of the theorems I wrote;
I know my hypothesis is correct when veins bulge and muscles catch.

Breathing shallow, in ragged determined gasps of air,
I put my theory to the test. Veins bulge, muscles strain.
There is no joy like the joy I know when I find my theory correct. I call it
The Warrior Poet Principle: One can in fact have brawn as well as brain.

I've accomplished the task I set myself in high school's lonely halls,
I vowed that I'd never be that weak waif again.
Hiding bruises from pimple faced tyrants who had me by my *****,
I persevered, and I grew my thews and thesis in twain.

**Now by neither tyrant nor textbook will I ever be chained.

Just as how a little stick-man could not perceive the pencil that drew him
I could have never seen God and didn't see him when he had molded me
from His depths of clay, profound as a rock- that is to say still, solid,
silent, cold, old, disquieting... All fancy words for 'not much.'

Here's the point: there isn't any, but
just as how this little stick-man cannot perceive this pencil that draws him
closer and closer to the last panel of his, this, comic or graphic novel:
beings of smaller dimensions know nothing
of those so much higher, smarter, and more poetic than themselves.

Does this have to do with why you disappeared onto an airplane
like a bird searching for her freedom...?
Am I, in this mess of metaphors, your little stick-man who couldn't
get out of his paper sheet and fly with you...?
Of course, in existing on a dried white flap, I could not, cannot, fold
my own two dimensions of existence into even one crumpled paper plane;
so I could not, cannot, follow you through your freeing air
and ask you, or beg you, to answer my silly questions...

Because I have both length and width, but no depth;
no depths of clay.

Though I figure the answers to these questions are the same.
The truth is that, in this mess of metaphors,
neither of us got to pick what we didn't want to be, bird or stick-man.
In reality we had only one choice: to hold hands when we could.
So we did.

And when we did- everything became dimensionless;
and Everything made sense because Nothing did.
Because the value of the distance between our hands
meant that Nothing was our Everything.
And from that dense Nothing our Universe was born-
Bang. Thus tiny strings of new Everything rippled throughout old Nothing...
making Everything matter, almost literally.
We then made our stars, our galaxies, our planets; our classrooms,
lockers, and lovers: each other. All of this brilliant Creation until
we only had one last choice: to hold hands when we could...
...so we did...

... again and again,
in the distant dreams of a troubled theorist
who chains together pages and birds of poetry,
looking to find you, again and again,
in the mess of metaphors
of our Universe,

and I did.

                    Almost.

A single helical strand twists randomly in the wind
All that steadies the twisting are the aetheric strings
Connected to base pairs...adenine...thymine...
Those strings steady the storms
But where do they lead
Where any path leads of course
And our destination is always our Self
That's how we know when we've arrived
We mirror back to our other Self exactly what We are
Adenine's other self is thymine
We live in duality
Until we're ready to leave that duality and become...
who we are
Non-dual
Citizens
of
Gaia

This morning I sat contemplating the wrinkled sheets of
my night of restless slumber-
I thought of the possibility behind contacting you and being
denied or sitting here and believing in the multi-verse theory.

When I was younger I took comfort in the thought of different
worlds which equate to multiple plausible outcomes.
I thought that if it rained here,
out there, another me would enjoy a sunshine bliss.
And so, by that logic, there is a universe in which you answer
positively, negatively,
one which we never met
and another which we are together from the beginning.
If so, does that mean this universe is the one of regret?

I am staring at my undone bed fully aware it won't make itself,
but I can't help and ponder that in another universe things once
broken put themselves together.
However, of action and inaction,
of to be and not to be;
this world demands and answer.
Thus this morning I make my bed quite early and wait for a reaction.