our bodies are paint
with every motion of your body do you set a paint-stroke
upon the canvas of life.

Everything begins
As a blank slate
Just so is Life

Like an artwork or a masterpiece
Magnificient as it is
Like a poem or love song
Beautiful as it is
Begins in a blank slate
Just so is Life

With perfect melody
Of personalities and experiences
Variety of tunes
Of knowledge and skills
Colors burst in each blank of slate

Magnificient
Beautiful
Life will be

Today I ran through the archives of the extensive library of memory,
in there I found various books with titles I have been longing to read;

"Days of shimmering sunshine,"
"Friendships forged for life,"
"The purple Barney I played with,"
"The best"
and "The worst."

I browsed through myriads of red and navy blue leatherbacks,
only to realize I found myself.

I found that it contained my dreams,
my fears,
my hopes
and even the reason for the selection of my favorite chocolate.

Memory reminds us of our essence.
The essence that brings tranquility to our souls on a chaotic day,
an essence that reminds us of our path that brought us to the destination of today.

Visit the library of memory often,
and remember to take a cup of steaming tea.

People are a mystery.
They each have a history --
A story leading to now.
I can't help but question how
So many precious folks,
So many ladies and blokes,
Came into existence.
Unique, yet forming consistence!

I have ever felt alone.
Marooned on a rock,
Surrounded by dead stock
Absent of mind or independent thought.
Idiocy is idealistic, ignorance bliss,
I envy this in them.
The burden of intellect is straining on the mind and once knowledge is gained escape, hard to find.

Walking thin lines between the mundane and mad,
A life drained of meaning,by the hand of definition.
Cornered by the finality of decisions I never made.
Alone.
Afraid.
Living in a time, after all has been said and all is being said.
After foundations laid and built up
into city states.
Now I’ll get to stand on its grave and watch as what makes us individual fades.
We’ve become slaves to lit pathways and the printed words on the back of meals that say
PUT ME IN THE MICROWAVE!
For one and a half minutes.
Then stir.
Going in circles with my spoon feeling a discontent bafoon because my life comes pre-prepared, easy to serve and consume.
These presumptions leave us no room, our creativity entombed.
But maybe one day when the worlds not so broke it will be exhumed.
I write to them from the world we broke.

That simple shade
Became something else.
Chemical manipulation
Of myself.
The alternative style
Of the simple apparel.
To be displayed and destroyed,
Put through peril.
This one of a kind,
Unavailable in stores.
Resulted from a craft,
Through friendship,
And something more.
We bore the fumes
Unfaltered by the work.
Our heads were light, and we prevailed with a smirk.
The counter was stained,
And so were the shorts.
But they were better now, and have since been worn.
And worn.
And worn.

I recently had a conversation,
With a friend of mine,
And I’m not sure how it started,
But it led to a conversation,
About what life would be like,
If we were all the same.

There’d be no creativity,
Imagination,
Difference,
We’d be clones,
Still living in primate times.

But if you think about it,
It’s kind of what communism is,
A society where everyone is equal,
Where everyone is the same.

Imagine living like that,
Like you aren’t special,
When in reality,
You are.

You are unique,
You are different,
You are you,
And never stop.