In amongst this rubble we met.
I suffer and you suffer and yet through the harsh words we call our own, one can find the truth.
We are at school, we are at home, yet nowhere at all.
Stuck in the inbetween.
Who are we to live such lives?
Are we stars that sit and twinkle all our lives before fading away into darkness?
Or do we fly across the sky in a bright flare, burning and too bright to last.
Either way, we are space junk… burning up and destined for endless darkness.
Quick.
Choose your life.
Know who you are.  
Work hard, and then work even harder.
Who are they to give us a choice?
What difference would it make?
We are no one compared to the glory of Jesus, yet He says we are enough.
Does that make us worthy of being?
Does that give us an excuse to patch together lies and weave a net across the sea?
The fish we would catch would have brilliant blue scales and yellow fins.
They would flip around on the deck of our boat and instead of suffering they die.
Their spirit moving on to the next dimension.
How fun this next dimension must be to accommodate these funks and quirks.
Imagine.
A place where you can eat giraffe spots and deep-fried zebra stripes.
Who gave us such an imagination to be able to ponder such wild concepts?
Yet within the maze of life we tackle through the loads of homework and give excuses when overwhelmed.
The piles build up and we create little houses within the pages.
In the houses live little people with little problems and little lives.
They have little gardens and say little hellos to other little people.
Do they look at us and think we are strange?
Do their hearts rip and tear when they hear of our names and how little they mean?
Why should we give prejudice to ducklings when the world agrees that yellow *****?
Can we not have one thing that makes sense?
Can we have one thing that can be without exceptions?
That is all I ask in this crowded chaotic chapter in my life.
I look to the sky each day and revel in the endless blues that seem to go on forever, yet still encompass us tightly.
Words and words and words.

The shadows gaze silently, cloaking me in divorce clothes
–splitting my mind in two. Nobody is innocent; for even
in the innocent eyes of a child, they must grow up –
Certainly no exception to this rule. At times, I find myself
draining the essence of my dreams, spiralling into a vortex
of procrastination, throwing my efforts down the drain.

Life is a canvas, and the art of existence is wrought with
suffering – the masterpiece of my story will be a portrait
painted with my blood, sweat, and tears, left as a haunting
Stain.

Yet, how we cast judgment upon the suicidal for not being
brave– praising the brave for flirting with the precipice of
risking their lives. As a true master of their courage; are
those who confront their deepest fears and still strive to
soar beyond them.

Still, I’ll walk through night as a strange person follows me;
only to discover that the shadows watching silently are
merely the echoes of my own regrets.

Asking myself where do I fall in people's eyes
–brave or suicidal...

I wanted to look to you like I was dancing
But the bugs on my bark weren't moving enough
I kept reaching skyward and praying for wind
     Never comes to a call, does it?
You could trace each fissure on my surface--why don'chya?--
     Find stories and runnels for flowing sap
Saw me off at the hip, maybe. See what jokes my rings have to tell

I'm tired of waiting for wind; I want to dance (I think?)

I wanted to look to you like I was thoughtful
So I sliced off a sheet of cyan and I robbed the sky
You called me "thief." ******' mean
     Always reaching for silver, aren't we?
Try to touch irises, press pupils. I've never been further than now
     Stories all end, so I'm told. But this one? Still going
Hacked apart, trying to show you my pieces. Chunks. Rough mince

So I stole again to pay the sky back. Ex nihilo, nihil fit
I can pour from empty, because I'm magic, baby!

I wanted to want to see you in Springtime
But we can't scrape Winter off our faces
     Sling me a flat stone that I can send spinning
Slapping across the water's surface
Did I hit the opposite bank? You could stitch together separate days
     if you only had the sinew and a proper needle
Blown apart by wind and explosive expecting. Chunks. Rough mince

I'm tired of waiting for wind. I'm tired of wanting to dance (I think?)
Not magic--well--not the kind that isn't bone and blood and skin
That's the sort of magic that doesn't exist.

Words haunt me,                                                              ­                                                    
                                                                ­                                          
forming
unprovoked,                                                      ­                                        
                                                                ­                                            
growing inside   me,                                                              ­                                                              
  ­                                                                 ­                                               
stuck in my
throat                                                           ­                                               
                                                                ­                                              
Keeps me up
nightly,                                                         ­                                       
                                                                ­                                      
sometimes I must
write,                                                           ­                       
                                                                ­                                                
can't take it
lightly,                                                         ­                                   
                                                                ­                                                    
till I make it right                                                            ­                        
                                        ­                                                                
Pushing,
evolving,                                                        ­                                          
                                                                ­                                        
thoughts in my
head,                                                            ­                                                
                ­                                                                 ­                           
puzzle solving,                                                         ­                       
                                         ­                                                                 ­  
writing in my
bed                                                              ­                                        
                                                                ­                                          
Causing
anxiety                                                          ­                                        
                        ­                                                                 ­                             
if I don't get it out                                                              ­                        
                                        ­                                                                 ­             
It stays in my
memory                                                           ­                       
                                         ­                                                                 ­        
and jumbles about                                                            ­                          
                                      ­                                                                 ­     
Finally, the ******,                                                          ­                      
                                                                ­                                                  
I've got it all down,                                                            ­                                    
                            ­                                                                 ­                           
 as I try to go
  back,                                                         ­                                     
                           ­                                                                 ­                          
to sleep safe &
sound                                                            ­                              
                                  ­                                                                 ­             
Like a leaky
faucet,                                                          ­                                  
                              ­                                                                 ­                       
it comes back
on,                                                              ­                                  
                                                                ­                                                  
I've had
enough,                                                          ­                                      
                                                                ­                                                        
I write until dawn

I want to say "Morning" to you every day,
When I wake up sweetly at first light,
To drink coffee with you under lilac
On the open terrace, laughing on sight.

I want to plunge into my thought darkness
And get only major of them therefrom.
They mantle my day, and it'll be cleaner.
And happiness will be my master for all.

I want to throw out all foul thoughts
About my fierce fortune in whole.
I want to revive, to cheer up, to uncover
And get off meek beggings forever at all.

I want to stop making the Deity from pain.
But I've got nothing work out at full.
And I continue to kowtow to my pain,
Begging for save as the latest fool.

I stand at the end, looking upon the new road ahead.
I step on to a new journey, with its map unread.
I am unaware of the destination; how do I advance?
"I am just a piece of paper here", said the map at a glance.
I carry along with me a treasure trove of experience and memories,
To which I still cling upon for an appease.
I find it tough to leave the treasure behind,
Together that I earned with my people in our grind.
I learn about the road on every turn as I proceed,
I reach the fork and validity of my decision makes me worried.
For the demand of each path, I pay a similar cost,
Not on the way, but in the pool of my thoughts, I am lost.