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.

This bed, though twin-sized,
is still too big and too cold
without you in it.

Warm lungs hide soft words, say it fast, faster.
Poetic dark room, grow teeth and watch closely because
believe me, life was, at one time, meant to be worth living.
Broken means finally perfect, wings heavy, sinking,
Iron-sure anchor felt like smoke,
looking from tree to tree as the leaves flutter down like pages,
mirrored birds watching, walking the covered ground, actions set in silence,
golden and grey, tell me you understand because someone has to.

Blame the glass oaks that swore not to bend,
blame loud smiles and blame body and tongue,
eyes held leftward, downward.
Different years feel shorter, the farther they get behind us
the harder they are to see.
Feet fell flat on rough asphalt, try to work no matter how you feel,
new talk brings new futures,
forced laughter leaves curves smooth
between silences.
I’m sorry.

Hard head made of clay from the ground he learned to walk on,
Dad told him when he was young, "Son,
there is a whole world past these city walls, but you will never see it."
"The wind is made of hardship, dad.
Everyone knows that."
He remembers the grit of his father's palms, rough on the back of his neck.
Righteousness is not always painless but it gets the job done.
He figured if he wore his roots simple and strong,
slung them over his shoulder, they’d hold him to the ground.
And he would bite through his own tongue,
for what else do his roots do but hold him to the ground
when all he really wants is to float away?
He wonders, singing out of open windows,
is any of it worth fixing?

Bring the winter, the shallow dove
writing bitter songs beneath the edges of her sleeves.
She caught happiness in her butterfly net when she was a kid,
but she packed that away long ago.

Raising a match to his cigarette, fighting tremors in his jaw,
he sees Satan across the street but he doesn’t wave.
Hell is a short walk from here in every direction,
any direction,
and despite what she’s read she decides hanging
is the best way to get there.
After ten Hail Mary’s and five Our Fathers,
she ties her best sash around her delicate throat
and makes the short jump
to forever and ever, amen.

Pressing intentions found in old books, fighting flames,
unpleasant conversations,
"Christ man, can’t we talk about something else?"
But she reminded him of satisfaction, of branches perfectly bent,
frozen, refracted and solid, fitting.
Shivers run rivers of liquid metal down his spine, amorphous.

The eighteenth time unfounded family found him
he blew the fire out in one quick breath
closed sleepless eyes tight
and wished with all his strength for death.  

Whispers grow, stone walls grey concrete,
rocks, trenches, I’ll be home tonight, he lies.
Paint burning skin with red lips, heavy breathing,
they could have danced forever.
They could still dance forever.

The consciousness and the being are two separate entities. When the consciousness falls in love with its being, then the two will both find true satisfaction, contentment, and happiness. That is the only way to true peace.

The person in the mirror is a whole new person. They embody who you are in reality. All the failures, the sadness - they are only your body wrestling with the will of is consciousness. If your consciousness can look into the mirror and understand that the image is its one true equal, the only person who can truly understand every part of their being and make them happy, then can the entity find true satisfaction and contentment.
TL;DR - You are your own best friend.

If the world caught fire tomorrow leaving we two the only survivors,
I think that things could be alright, because I think that you and I could 
Sift through the ashes, make morbid jokes and talk about the rain 
and the things that we missed and the things we did not and thing things we wished hadn't changed. 
And if, when the flames subsided our living hell were to freeze over,
you and I could keep each other warm, sleeping close, each other's cover. 

Because you are all I need in the world.  It is that simple.

Darling, if only you would pour your heavy heart into my hands 
I'd let the coals slip through my fingers until gold was all we had. 
If you and I were the last on earth, well, that would be alright,
Because no one else has ever loved me, ever proved that they would fight
For me the way that you did the night I dove into the sea
and you braved the waves and rising tides and swam out after me. 
I don't know what I was looking for, out there in the ocean.
Maybe it was a trick of the moon, a spell cast from perfection.
I was convinced that once I'd hit the bottom, I'd never again look the direction
of the surface.
But. You reminded me to come up for air.

I have everything I need in you. My terra firma, my everything. And I promise, on my love for you, I won't go back out to sea.

I would now like to relate to you
the dilemma with which I am faced:
Not to be morbid or anything, but.
Despite my best efforts
I am still alive
and must go on living
the same life I thought I had abandoned for good.

So, what in the name of the holy ******* ghost
am I supposed to do  now?
Because, I hate to be a ******,
everyone,
I hate to **** the vibes
don't wanna harsh the mellow or anything, here,
wouldn't want to put you out or anything,
but nothing has changed.
I mean, it's a little unsettling to just
jump right back into the shark tank
with the stitches from the last attack
still fresh from the needle.


Anyway. That's all I needed to say.
I know this isn't a blog, but. I really like to put the words down.
Thank you for your time.

I dove headlong into the sea two weeks ago.
Grey clouds
grey skies
reflected gray waters.
Rain fell, ambivalent,
hiding the sun, obscuring the soul
if soul there was. I don’t know what the rain believes,
but I knew it meant well.

I kicked off my shoes; shed my sweater, draping it across a rock
beaten smooth by crashing saltwater assaults,
misery endured silently for millennia
solid, solitary, solemn.

I walked, barefoot, across the stones.
I listened to the ringing of the silence
to the roar of the ocean.
Rain-soaked and reverent,
I willed myself to the edge of the rocks,
where I watched the waves seething below,
calling, inviting
nagging, inciting
persisting, requesting
insisting, infesting.

Turning my face to the absent sun,
I closed my eyes
felt the sting of the icy wind
felt the hairs on my arms begin to stand,
the frigid air aching in my lungs.
My breath caught, shivers interrupting a sigh of submission,
and I told myself
Peace.
You are not afraid. Not anymore.
And I smiled. And I felt warm.
And I was happy.
I counted one, two, three,
and I fell.

You see beauty every day,
but tell me,
do you ever feel it?

I hope and I wish with all my heart
that I can make you as happy as you make me,
because I swear to god you’re everything I’ve ever wanted
and ten times what I’ll ever be.

I have, for whatever reason, been given a chance with you.
and I am so
*******
terrified,
because now that I have you
the only thing left to do
is to lose you.  
(The only thing that hurts more than unrequited love
is having loved and lost.)

But believe me when I say that I’m going to work.
I’m going to try
so ******* hard
to be half the person you deserve,
to be everything you want me to be.

I just hope you know
that you’re not obligated to stay
just because of everything that’s happened.
I hope you’re still here
because you want to be
and not because you feel like
you have to be.

I love you.

But if you need to go, well.
I already know what it feels like to die.
Could a broken heart be worse?

Maybe I’m not making myself perfectly clear.
Love, is it is my actions or my words
causing your unfounded fears?

Why would the wise and snowy owl
abandon the tree in which it lives
and rush into the howl
and the whipping of the wind?

Why would the traveler, lonely soul,
forsake the comfort of his bed
to seek the cold and distant queries
of the shrouded road ahead?

Would a musician ever still his hands
and hush his singing heart?
Why would he ever shun his only brand
of expression, his own art?

And a poet, just like you and I,
could never still her  pen
for the images in her mind’s eye
seek restitution, fitting ends.

I need you. I am yours.
I am in love with all you are.
Please let me show you, each day more
in love than the day that came before.

Put away your doubt for once.
Suspend your disbelief.
I promise never to leave you,
for what a fool, then, would I be?

Things have never been easy,
and I have never been one to talk about that.
But I can flip the switch,
a few sparks and a puff of smoke,
and shut down everything
from the inside out.
I can refuse to feel.
And it’s easier that way.

Things have never been painless,
and I have always liked it that way.
(Or so I thought.)
I have four scars to show,
all that’s left from four years
of cutting
and burning
forcing adrenaline to replace
whatever shutdown couldn’t delete.
And it’s less painful that way.

But I am painfully sorry.

Please believe me when I say that I never meant to hurt anyone.
You, especially.
You were the only thing I would miss.
I can’t believe I almost gave you up.
I am selfish. I am cynical.
I am hateful. I am unpleasant.
I am busted, broken, bleeding,
bold and brazen and burned and belligerent
medicated and molded and morphed
and Christ, does anyone know ******* how hard it is
to keep going
to pick up where you left off
when you told yourself
told everyone,
that you were quitting?
When you'd finally dug a hole deep enough to bury yourself in
and they tell you you have to dust yourself off
and climb out
and keep marching?
Does anyone see how ******* difficult it is to smile at them
when you had already accepted the fact
that you’d never see them again?
I chose it for myself
for a ******* reason. And now I’m back
and they think something’s changed?
The solution to my problems
is not as simple as 100 milligrams
of a white pill called happiness.
Maybe this is a chemical imbalance,
maybe my mind is dysfunctional,
or maybe it was meant to be.
But nobody let me choose.

I am sorry. I’m being selfish again.

If you still want me,
after everything I’ve done
to my parents
to my friends
to myself
to you
Whatever is left of me
is yours.
If you still want me.

This time, I have my mind made up.
This time, I am content with my future.
I am done writing, I have written enough
to fill an ocean with pages of poems.
Today is not about writing.
Today, finally, is about action.

I head outside for cold air and quiet, escaping too-loud laughter and the filth of drunkenness. As the porch door closes behind me the silence explodes, cacophonous, both ears simultaneously bursting with the high pitched squeal of the sudden nothingness. It surrounds me, vibrating my bones, frothing the marrow within, pressing my temples, heart quickening to steady the body against the assault of the stillness, the stagnation of the world around me. I don't know who I am. I am not -- not anyone. I am alone. I am what they want me to be. Seated cross-legged on cold concrete, the alcohol plays the stars across my eyes like a projector: they move this way and that across my field of vision, swaying, dancing. I feel myself floating, getting lost in my own mind again. I hate that feeling.
I put a cigarette out on my hand, pressing orange  embers into soft flesh. I grit my teeth as the world rushes back. The voices bring me down. The clink of glass bottles brings me down. The searing smell of my skin brings me down. I light it again, pull a few deep drags, then stub it out again, this time inside my forearm. My eyes squeezed shut, I feel myself fall back into reality, like a soft bed, like my skin loosens just enough to let me breathe again. I land on both feet, quietly, softly. I stand up, bush myself off, and walk back inside.
I'll burn the whole pack tonight.
I kissed him on the cheek, secretly hoping he'd wake from his stupor and keep my company, but he was too far gone, lost hours ago to two or three too many shots taken in bad faith, but with good intentions. I left him on his couch. He'd be safe there. He needed his sleep.
Why couldn't I get as drunk as them, drunk enough to numb away the emotions, the longing? I was disappointed, but I wasn't surprised. I curled up on the couch alone, pulling my sleeves down to cover the blisters, already rising. If I could just sleep, I could forget. Everyone slept but me. I went out for another cigarette.

Singing birds are often better off caged, and maybe I’m no different. Maybe it’s safer, biting my tongue and shoving my hands deep in my pockets when the urge to delineate my woes shivers its way up my spine, shaking the rust from the back of my teeth and loosening the hinges on my jaw. I’m constantly reminded that the world outside my mind is far too dangerous, too brutal for my fragile thoughts, for my feeble words. But every now and then those words get the better of me. They convince me that their songs are worth hearing, that they’ll survive the hell that awaits them. Then, eager and  hopeful, they jump off my teeth like a diving board, spreading their wings and gliding out into the world of the unknown, the world of wars waged to divide and battles fought to conquer. I watch as they hang suspended in the air, wings spread, small and beautiful against the ominous background, innocent if only for a fleeting moment. But, of course, beauty has no place here.
I cringe as the shots ring out from all directions, as everyone around me opens fire upon my winged thoughts. I shut my eyes tightly against the firing of guns, arrows, cannons: delivering the message loud and clear that the airspace between me and the world is better left unclouded by my superfluous banter. I try not to watch as they drop from the sky, my unsuspecting words, but my eyes force themselves open. Wings broken, hearts still, they crash to the ground, silenced.
I want to gather them one by one, my feathered thoughts, gently in my hands; I would take them somewhere safe and give them a proper burial, for they were once so near and dear to me. But I’m afraid of what lies in the battlefield. I’m afraid of the landmines and the barbed wire and the trenches. So I bow my head, refasten the locks on my sore, stiffened jaw, and turn my back on the carnage, on the dirt and grass and the haze and smoke. I turn from my defeated birds, form the bodies of my barely spoken words, and I leave them.

We lay on our backs, looking up to the sky, watching the clouds drift and dance across the indescribable expanse of summer blue. Shameless, we shout the first things that come to mind, whatever we think see floating above us.
Turtle. Sailboat. Dragon. Elephant. Chair. Fire truck.
And we laugh, because we know they’re just amorphous masses of water vapor, floating without reason or destination.
And the clouds, they lay on their stomachs. They look down with wonder, pointing and giggling. They tumble and roll across the sky, watching our lives below. Shameless, they whisper to each other the first thing that comes to mind, whatever they think they see below them.
Mother. Leader. Writer. Musician. Son. Lover.
And their laughter thunders across the sky, echoing raucously through the air because they know we’re just amorphous masses of water vapor, wandering across the earth without emotion or purpose.
Who do we think we are?

I want to write something to fix me.
I want to write something to heal my wounds, to hide my scars.
I want to write something to wear that will make me beautiful. I want to sew something from words that will fit me perfectly, something that flows like linen, curves of S's fitting curves of hips, legs like L's and F's soft like lips.
I want to write something to wear like new skin, something to make me interesting to look at, to make me a poem worth reading. I want to be the one you tuck into your notebook and read in class. When you're tired of listening, tired of focusing, tired of everything, you can read a few lines off my shoulder blades, from my palms or knees, and maybe you'll feel better.
I want to write something that will make you laugh. God, I love your laugh, I'd write myself into a joke just to see you smile like that, my shoulders to set it up, collar bone to draw you in, my stomach could be the punch line and I'd have you cracked up for sure. I don't need to be taken seriously, as long as I can see you laugh.
I want to write something strong and heavy. I'll melt the letters together, weld T's to G's and K's to X's until I've written us an anchor. It'll be just light enough for us to carry, just heavy enough to weigh us down. I'll weave J's into ropes, we'll tie ourselves together, and toss our anchor overboard. No matter how the ocean writhes and tosses my words will be heavier, my ropes stronger. The anchor will hold us fast, words weighted by promises, fighting angry seas around us. No matter what, we will always be close enough to read each others' poetry.
I want to write something that will last forever. I want to set words in stone to be discovered long after I'm gone, to paint hieroglyphics on the walls of my house to be interpreted by future civilizations. "This is where I ate cereal." "This is where I showered." (Did I make you laugh? You know how I love your laugh.)
I want to write razor-sharp, white-hot points of infinite logic, and I want to write children's books. I want to write something that means anything but God, all I want is to write anything that means something.
I want to write something to fill pages, to break silence.
I want to write something to fix me.

It was always just there, undoubted, unmoving.
It was the ground beneath my feet, it was the air in my lungs.
I had no reason to worry that I should be proving
That I was worth waiting around for with the songs that I sung.
Then one day I looked down and the ground moved below me,
I walked right off the edge of the earth into the thin air below.  
I had always assumed you and I would be trophies
Hanging around each other’s necks, we were the best thing we had to show.
Then the cold crept in and the trees died in fire,
Each branch was a vibrant torch, flames fighting cold autumn wind.
I still think the cold that Eighteenth Winter inspired
My heart to freeze solid when the truth wouldn’t bend.
See I’ve got shallow friendships tied around both wrists like anchors
They’re all that keeps me from drifting out to even lonelier seas.
One day I’ll work up the courage to thank her
For saving you from my complacency.
Paper butterflies are not enough to save me
For the words forming mobs at the back of my tongue.
I’ve got myself muzzled, forcing myself to behave, see,
Who knows where a thought can go once it’s begun.

Suncatcher.
Looking straight past your actions, I find your intentions. I read them in dark pupils like Webster’s definitions. Despite glass eyes staring as you let me go, your iron curtain countenance was a stained glass window. I see your thoughts cross your mind like I might see tired old man crossing his living room, just before he draws the curtains in the evening. I watched through painted panes as you held yourself still, watched through unblinking windows as you fought your own will. And so I walked to my car, in the dark, alone, breathing clouds of grey vapor in the direction of home. And you stood across the street in the amber street lights that attract the moths whose wing beats my heart finds rhythm with as it flutters from rib to lung to throat, never holding still for fear of permanence. You thought you’d gotten your heart off your sleeves but it will always be a sun catcher, hanging from fishing line, casting cold colored shadows on the actions of a nervous mind, once thought invisible, the windows you hide behind let in just enough light for me see what I knew I’d find.
Honey, I can read your smoke signals.

I don’t understand how you could me mine.
(What does the proud oak want with the pine?)
I can’t imagine how my long, skeletal hands
are the ones yours long to hold.
I am tough and coarse, like a pine,
Ever-green, constant, covered in spines
and needles, unpleasant and sharp to the touch.
While you, my love, are an oak.
You are strong and beautiful. Your leaves change colors,
fiery or verdant, you are loud when all others
shrink from speech. You, love, are dynamic, intriguing,
a tree that inspires poetry.
Your roots hold you fast, they run deep and true,
while mine fan out, shallow. I fear with no roots
to hold me, the wind could take me away.
(The wind will tear me apart.)
You are the one tree that grows tall and straight
in a place where the wind, fed by anger and hate
forces others to bend, to grow crooked, they’re lost
and confused, with nothing to reach for.
My branches are short – I offer no comfort
(from lack of ability or knowledge, I’m not sure).
Your branches stretch wide, embracing with smooth bark,
But an oak cannot love a pine.

I was sure that this feeling was gone for good,
but trial and error has yielded more error than it should
and I’m beginning to think that I can’t do all the things
I’ve so resolutely sworn that I would.
I can’t blame inadequacy on those little pink pills,
Doc prescribed my anxiety for three years and still
to this day I wonder where I’d be
if side-effects hadn’t brought out the demons in me.
But now, dearest reader, I’m finally free.
But freedom, well, it’s a bitter pill to swallow,
because now, who’s to blame when that eerily hollow,
haunting feeling creeps up behind me?
When the only thing in the room is the mirror beside me,
and I’m watching me stare back at me
and I’m seeing what I’ve always seen
and I swore, christ, I swore on everything
that this would be my awakening.
But. It wasn’t.
Yeah, I swore that this feeling was gone for good,
but winter’s brought it back like part of me always knew it would.
So I’ll hide blame under the furniture, in dark the corners of this room
and hope I’ll learn what it means to let go sometime soon.

I tire
Of the perfect:
Of the flawless,
The azure,
The quiet,
The pastoral.
I tire of sunsets
And of flowers
I tire of perfect skin
And perfect lungs
I tire of politeness
And I tire of patience.

I am bored
by golden sunrays,
Reflected brightly
from golden hair
Trailing behind a sundress
Weaving, careless,
through golden wheat.
I no longer want to be her.

I tire of fluffy pillows
And warm blankets.
I am bored of hot tea
And of books about things
That are not real,
Only beautiful figments of the mind,
Only as real as the pages, the cover,
Only as real as we can pretend them to be -
And I am bored of pretending.

I am bored with cities
And with mountains
And with fields
And rivers
And the ocean.
I grow impatient with the trees
And the clouds
And the birds.


I am bored by the beautiful.
Because beautiful is beautiful, so,
But it is only beautiful.
And Beauty, though held fast,
Esteemed above all other qualities
Sought tirelessly
Worshipped and envied
Revered, praised
Beauty is only beauty.
It is not deserved.
It is not earned.
It cannot speak, it cannot give
It cannot love.
Beauty is nothing.
Beauty is boring.
I am bored by beauty.
I do not seek what is beautiful.
I will never be beautiful.
But that is a very small thing
To never be.
I can be far, far more
Than beautiful.

I can be real.
You are real.
And I am real.
And us, we
We are real.
What we are
What we have
Is real.
I am not yet tired
Of you.

And I will never be tired
of us.