Let the blade
hover
above my throat
lover
Tell me again
dear
you wish you could stay
here
Tell me about the foreign
hands
setting fire to the promised
land
The last thing I will ever
feel
your punishment, your cold
steel
I can feel you there
close
Drop the blade, so that
snow
will cover the grave of the thing I
killed
leave a clean start for the spring you'll
build

The problem with people is that we are trapped.
We are boundless in our imagination and curiosity, and yet we may only conduct ourselves within the tiny window of our own perception of the world. We wonder about what is behind, beneath, beyond what we can see. We need to know why, why, why, what accident or plan or catastrophe forged the human consciousness? What carpenter, what architect, what tools built these bodymindsoul creatures that stir and writhe in their own confusion? We are like caterpillars who have inched their way to the end of the stem, stretching ourselves out into terrifying oblivion in hopes of finding something new to hold on to. We push ever so slowly at the boundaries of life, expanding it, nudging at the walls of the absolute. We have grown too big to fit inside the thin shell of reality which perception traps us in.
Sometimes the imagination takes over, forces itself to crack through the frail, eggshell layer of reality and look oblivion in the eyes, to know once and for all whether dead and alive are any different at all, and what came before, and what will come after. Reality pales in comparison to the infinity of the human consciousness. In the mind, there is no before or after- only whether or not.

Once you shatter reality, you will see the universe unfold before you like a blanket. Its secrets will form lines and shapes, rivers and mountains across a map, showing what is, what has always been, and what will always be. You will know infinity. But no one will ever believe you.

Sometimes I see the things that remind me of you
and I wonder if they're still the things you enjoy taking time to do.
But the you I knew is likely not the new you,
so I will preserve in my head the image of you
and hold fast to the things that made you the you I knew.

I used to never cry.
I was so proud of myself then.

I used to make everyone happy,
and I mean everyone.

But I placed too much faith in my fair-weather fans,
because it has begun to rain
slowly
drop
drop
drop
and people are leaving
one
less
friend.

If it helps at all, I hate who I've become, too.
I am every kind of ****** up a person can be.

I've been high at least once a day for the past who knows how long.
I have stopped working out.
I stopped singing,
I stopped making art.
I stopped writing.
I stopped taking those stupid pills,
because some part of me thought it would help
like I'd remember what it felt like
to feel alive
once all the chemicals flushed themselves out of my system.
(Nope.)

These days, I simply have to choose between failing
and suffering through it
or failing
and being totally fine with it.
Whatever.


I have no idea who the **** I am anymore.
Neither do my friends, or my family.
I am here in form, but not in spirit.
So, quickly, while I've no memories to leave behind
shall I quietly take my leave?

It's been said that happiness is just a chemical equation,
so if Socrates says it's it golden, are you calling his assertions fallacious?
Our youth has let adulthood clip our wings and force us into burning light
from the sheltered, softened world where our innocence used to hide.
Age brings darkness. It sneaks in slowly, stealing bliss, sinister serpent,
we let him replace our carelessness with solemn seriousness and self-observance.
Sunshine became an energy source, a burning star, and nothing more.
The tides, the mountains, the freckles on your chest hold no mysteries anymore,
because we know what they are. We're smart - we finally know better.
We have broken beauty and enchantment into particles of matter.

We're much too old and smart now to fall for nature's silly tricks.
For each secret hidden deep in the world, we build a tool to **** it with.

We've explained away the smiles and laughter
and we've beaten meaning out of every chapter
of every book that ever made us wonder.
We murdered innocence, a sordid blunder.
Because we have to know. We crave a meaning, a purpose, something solid,
and so for centuries we've dug our way down, and soon we'll reach the bottom.
I mean, do you really want to hear that everything is nothing?
What will you gain when you demand that nature stops her bluffing
and see the clearest truth about existence as we know it?
When you've solved the final mystery, what will you have to show for it?
We, the clumsy people, are emptying the world of all its luster.
We have polished and picked at our precious, gleaming life until it rusted.
We, in our greed and hunger,
have spoiled the secrets of the wonder
we were trusted with, whether by divinity or blind ******* luck.
We behold beauty, bursting forth with bold abandon, but only question it's chemical makeup.

I wish I'd stop beginning. 
Everything I begin ends, and I can't stand the endings. So I should stop the beginnings.
But I can't stop beginning, because that would mean the end of beginnings. And I hate endings. 
If only I could begin something I knew wouldn't end. 
Sadly, it isn't up to me. It simply depends on the proximity of your orbit to mine. I am not magnetic enough to keep you still; your orbit will draw you near to me just long enough for us to begin, then you will continue on your path, leaving me in your wake with only an ending to hold.
And I hate endings.

You don't make me happy. You are my happiness. The difference between the two is simple, but important: You see, if you only made me happy, just the thought of you would be enough. A picture of you would suffice to keep me content. But it isn't. You are my happiness, embodied. So when you're away, my happiness is gone as well. Thoughts are not enough. I don't feel complete when I'm not with you. I need you. All of you. I can only hope that you need me, too.  
I always thought of love like puzzle pieces. I know that metaphor's been done a hundred times over, but this is a little more specific. You see, everyone is built in a certain way. We are all pieces. Some people are whole pieces unto themselves - an entire picture, clear and beautiful. They don't need another puzzle piece. They're complete as they are, which is fine. Most people, however, are parts of a whole. They need other pieces to help them make sense, to see the whole picture. Some people have a lot of spaces and gaps, and it takes a lot of other puzzle pieces working together to keep them happy and to make them feel whole. Most people are halves. They are half of a picture, searching for the other half of themselves. However, these are puzzle pieces, meaning not every piece will fit with another. The pieces have to be the right size, the right shape, the right color. Puzzle pieces are complex and dynamic. Each one is special. Even if a piece is shaped really weird or has odd edges and angles, it fits perfectly with another piece somewhere. They just have to find each other. No one is wrong, and no one is unlovable. They just have to find the piece that complements them.
Somewhere, there is another puzzle piece out there that will help you make sense of yourself and see the whole picture of who you are. I always liked to think of it like that. I like to think that someday, someone as unique as I am will help me create a beautiful picture, a whole picture of myself, that we can both understand and be happy with. And I will do the same for them. Just like a puzzle.