"hypotheticals" poems
her words snap me back to reality,
away from supposition and hypotheticals,
into her arms where I feel safe.
blue eyes that pierce whatever darkness
i thought i had and lied to myself about,
eyes that see me for a who I am and who I want to be.
imagine walking down a darkened path,
content in the streetlights that guided
you home, and spotting something small
and kind. whatever it is you imagine,
it beckons you to hold it and when you do,
you smile, truly and impulsively.
that essence is a woman, and one i admire.
someone beatiful, kind, and funny,
including her incessant snoring on
already sleepless nights because a cat is begging for food but you feeling comfort
in their REM cycle. too little space
to be your own, but enough heart to bridge the gap.
imagine, then, that someone places
your hand on their lap when you drive,
but are equally willing to do the same,
in what feels like an equivalent exchange
of heart and sheer goofiness.
and tell yourself it doesn't feel right
that you were able to find home in them,
effortlessly and happily. you won't
and can't, and neither can i.
words can't express that she has been
friend, confidant, and a visual marvel,
and someone i envision as a pillar
of my bright existence.
Jul 14, 2023
Jul 14, 2023 at 9:25 PM UTC
Why does it have to be this way?
Why do I have to spend years of my life in fear?
There is so much hate for something so natural.
Is it the misogyny?
That I, a woman, dare defy males the pleasure of having me?
Is it religious hate?
That I, a lesbian, dare defy God's image of mankind?
Is it the fetishization?
That who I love is more akin to a **** category than a real relationship?
It could be, or it could be other causes.
The fact is, it shouldn't matter.
We've all heard it, I'm born this way.
After a while, the same argument doesn't mean anything though.
I don't know how else to convey to these idiots I didn't choose this.
I didn't choose to lose my childhood best friends,
Or to be outed to my high school because I trusted the wrong person.
To live in fear that my parents would not accept me for who I am.
To have such a fear of myself, I sabotage any relationship I begin.
I know I should have pride,
and I do.
I just don't know if the good outweighs the bad yet.
All of the good are hypotheticals.
Thinking about my future wife, and house, and relationship dynamics.
I fantasize about a shapeless form that will one day be someone I love.
But for now, that is all it is, a fantasy.
I want it to be a reality,
I want my parents supporting and loving me to be a reality too.
I want to find the person I am brave enough to hold hands with,
in spite of the rage that it causes.
I just want to be happy.
Jun 15, 2021
Jun 15, 2021 at 9:16 PM UTC
if tomorrow never comes
it must be the end of the world
and i know i won't be ready for afterlife
i won't say a final goodbye
but i know you're the kind of person
who likes defined edges and endings
so i'll settle for a compromise
when you say goodbye, i'll say goodbye
goodbye, that is, until next time
Sep 22, 2021
Sep 22, 2021 at 10:52 PM UTC
We met at noon between picnic tables and humid Maryland heat.
Either you or the sun made me dizzy, as I talked and you nodded.
We were both distracted by the thought of air-conditioning.
We parted in August among mini-vans and goodbye kisses.
My eyes followed the license plate as you drove away, we agreed to sail catamarans the next chance we had.
We had both noted there was something in the water that summer, something purer than the water from the Chesapeake.
We rejoined in December under a Caribbean sun, not as humid as Maryland’s, surrounded by water purer than the Chesapeake.
There was still a buzz around us, like the air before a Maryland heat storm, to convince us the year of letters was not for naught.
We fell back to old habits on the Dutch side of Saint Martin.
We talked like the future was a choice and we had opted out.
We avoided words like regret and yesterday and repeated words like now, now, now and we spoke in hypotheticals.
We planned our house, or what it would be if we ever got boring enough to say words like tomorrow.
We stopped speaking in July after one thousand four hundred days of avoiding the next.
We should have known we were doomed to fail when “our song” was by Old ***** ******* and “our house” didn’t include a family room.
We should have known when our plans never involved the word tomorrow.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 10:22 PM UTC
We have buried the (((center))) of our being in layers of rigid hypotheticals,
pouring the cement of impossibility and refusing to drill deeper for
fear of an oil spill, an explosion, the expulsion of a dormant soul.
[If we]
[[If you]]
[[[If I]]]
The taste of a silent stroke on my tongue,
iron from the blood of unhealed wounds.
Metallic memories refusing to be forgotten
fighting to be remembered.
[You fools]
[[You fool]]
[[[I am a fool]]]
The scent of a carcass creeps into my nose,
rotten flesh from a casket broken up.
Frankenstein fears refusing to be mocked,
fighting for resurrection.
Even the bones of ancient species remerge as fossils to be found.
-lf-
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
There was a smile in your eyes
a reflection
that was allowed to last about
three minutes and thirty-two seconds
before you said you needed
to swiffer the floors later
and then it was tucked away
under rolled up sleeves
that did dishes
and wiped counters
only to return
when contemplating how clean
everything would be
if what did the sweeping
were my hands and knees.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
It seems to me,
That we live oh so,
Vicariously
Dreaming up hypotheticals
Without ever leaving the windowsill.
A stand-still, if you will.
What good is a man's word
if most of the feelings go unheard.
Unable to project outwardly into the world they think they know.
Whether real life or fantasy
I believe
That the collective extent of imagination, is me.
Or at least part.
How lost is a man, whose demeanor shows no heart?
One beats, but one seeks passionate adventure right from the start.
How will he know of the ecstasy that lives within you and me?
Maybe we should go up to him and hug him, enchanted by electricity.
Synapses fire
But the soul flows.
Breathe deep,
Watch the seed of hope grow
Tomorrow never knows,
Now may be all we have
Let's let go,
It pains me to see you sad
Changes are the strangest,
Yet a fascinating constant.
Go in your own direction,
Before you wonder where everyone went
You've made a dent but cant prevent
The relentless ambush of signals
Steering you away.
It's hard, I know it is.
Be the light to shine your way,
and stray from the unscrupulous.
The times burned are lessons learned,
Take charge of that which you've yearned.
The ingredients are there, you just have to stir.
Share the fruits of your labor
To the open, closed,
The in-betweens,
And those yet to be exposed.
The spirit is stronger than
Our brains currently interpret.
Inside the insight is where we undoubtedly flourish.
Let's please,
Feed each other if we're malnourished
Let the emotions come to the surface,
To break free and find our purpose
Don't be nervous, show no fear.
We all pass on,
But we're always here.
I just feel we must leave a legacy,
That won't disappear.
Reincarnated to influence
and reproduce love.
In my absence, I've still got your back
From the cosmos above,
within, and all around.
We can never stop the learning process, while handing out all we've found.
Symmetrical symphonies without even making a sound.
..So we'll let the soundtrack to existence play..
But remember,
Every word becomes a part of the experience,
Even that, which you do not say.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
I'm falling like the rain
Spinning and colliding with everything.
It's all so lovely,
But it's the pungent smell of lust
That takes my breath away.
You wore a magnificent disguise
You were so beautiful
That I thought you would break the curse
Of my bruised and ****** heart
With every vein intact.
When we kissed,
It was electric
But I never asked you to go farther.
I didn't want to do the things
That you wanted to do
But "no" and "not here"
Were some letters strung together
That you could not identify.
After your strong will honed in on me
Threatened me
Violated me and then threw me away
I did not know what to make of it.
Shades of grey, that's what it was.
It was not black and white as I expected
Any type of ****** manipulation to be.
I just assumed that
If that happened to me
I would know it
Press charges
And tell someone.
Anyone.
Victim blaming would not affect me.
After all, I am a feminist, right?
But much to my surprise,
It took a brutal toll on my existence.
So many dangerous, pernicious things
Can sparkle beautifully.
They catch your eye
As if to trick you
And make you second guess yourself.
That's how they **** you in.
You always think in hypotheticals
That it will look clear as day.
Until it happens to you.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
Elbows propped on tabletops,
we roll out our worlds, like a red carpet,
across the surface between us.
Mapping out our weeks
we speak in riddles
only able to be understood by
present company and others with
an acute appreciation for the absurd.
Round 1
We begin by bouncing pleasantries
mingled with snark and
littered with nonsense stories
across the space where our scotch glasses
drain lazily between us.
Round 2
Brings with it a new tone-
we begin to slip into hypotheticals
and start the dangerous
and all too familiar process of
looking over our own shoulders.
The past seems to sneak
into the pauses and reminiscing starts
to seem too surreal to be appealing.
Round 3
And we are forced to keep reluctant company
with the regret that now speckles the tabletop in front of me.
Our eyes retreat from each other
as our mouths start forming
around our greatest inadequacies.
Fear of the future,
we're petrified by the present.
We are forgetting how to be hesitant
as coping mechanics drift and split.
Round 4
**** starts to get real.
You try to be ambivalent.
And I just get angry.
Round 5
I am entertaining the possibility
of weeping publically.
(It's an unfortunate emotional default setting)
Round 6
We find our way back
to the familiar.
Accessing the damage
we joke to save face
while working to wind the loose ends
back together again
to stash them from where they came.
(But nothing ever fits back into its box as easily after its been unpacked)
Each week we try to be
each other's comfort zone
to crawl inside
to rest awhile.
But tonight we're too exhausted
and too self-absorbed
and too similar to get it right.
We'll try again next week,
on the next high-top next Wednesday night.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 3:48 AM UTC
To speak in good taste:
My mouth is full,
but this food is delicious.
Since I prepared the meal,
could you wash the dishes?
It's on the tip of my tongue:
I know what I mean to say,
but consonants and vowels
are hard to place,
so give me some time.
This isn't a race.
It could always be worse:
Yes, it could be,
but spare the neurotic,
because hypotheticals,
are never exotic.
If there's a will,
there's a way:
Excuse the jaded ****
who puts thought into thought,
and understands the
value of a buck.
But to speak freely,
and to lose my filter,
our differences are
commonplace.
I'm a flower
that withers.
And
at the end of the day,
who am I to say,
that my frustrations
differ from yours,
because we keep all of our truths
locked
behind closed doors.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
That emptiness creeps in,
I am alone.
Your mouth is moving,
But I can't hear anything but:
"..using me.."
He says.
"..using me.."
I am so breakable.
You're only speaking in,
Hypotheticals.
Is it this easy?
Disappointment in myself,
Is overwhelming.
When did I give you the power,
To break me?
It's too late.
I've already let you past the gates.
Infiltrated.
You know it all and,
I can't go back now.
I can't go back.
I don't want to,
And I don't know how.
This life is meaningless,
Without you in it now.
Don't walk away,
Don't shut me out.
Wanting you is the only thing,
This was ever about.
But one day you will not remember.
One day you will walk away.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
here they come amassing their potential greatness in the back of my mind
there they go a squanderin around
the bug spins twice for the amusement of the hypotheticals and sporadic leeches
the door slams shut before opening again forthe greatest of the releases
and the nonsensicals pour out just this once for perhaps the only andlast time
they march forth in order of smallest to largest. silliest to unprovoked
wearing ******* clown shoes and false faces
some with dollar signs still burning the palms of their hands
but most with 10,000 mile stares
do they still write for the universal, for the greatest spining reversal?
do they still speak in the most straightforward of riddles?
does anyone still read into them...
does the faucet still incessantly drip idealized water memories...
I can only see the slope, not the gradient
I can only feel the dew, not the grass
i can only taste the crab, not the shell
I can only hear the music, not thewords
facing divinity and scouring myself clean in the shame it forces
seeing the exact center of the venn diagram
and being blinded by the duality therein
*****
and links
234
simplicity is the most difficult thing to master
books don't write themselves
authurs can't design inspiration
liquids still sing
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
it's a brown paper bag poetry kind of day --
one of those with multitudes of foggy fleeting
passive agressive hypotheticals
and I realize, that all I have to share
are half-assed transcriptions
of an intangible boredom
only born of a self-inflicted state of stagnation
this isn't a poem.
but my guess is that you're
indifferent anyway
my guess is that the words are
flowing through you
passing right through
no time to sink in
no, people like me
thoughts like mine
they're so tired
used up -- old news
no, we don't stick
you'll forget soon enough
what it is that brought you here
to this place
of tired hypotheticals
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 4:23 AM UTC
Twenty
Four
Hours.
Over a year ago
My theatre teacher told me
And a group of my closest friends
To write down
Exactly what we would do if
We found out we only had
Twenty-four hours left
To live.
My original draft was very juvenile,
Full of dramatic kisses
And dying in my crush's arms.
It was beautiful
For a seventeen-year-old romantic.
I don't know if my teacher realized
That I would become slightly
Obsessed with
What I would do
If I had twenty-four hours to live.
But whether she realized or not,
Obsessed I became.
I wrote "24" or my hand each day
For weeks,
To remind me that I could be
Dead in twenty-four hours,
Or less.
I wrote at least fifty drafts
Of what I would do
If I found out at that moment
That I had twenty-four hours left.
I would write a new draft when I decided
That the previous draft was
Too out-dated.
I think the longest lasting draft
During my surge of
Twenty-four hour hypotheticals
Lasted one week.
One.
I was totally obsessed with daring greatly,
Doing the things I had longed to do
For weeks or months or years,
And suddenly I had the permission I needed
To do them:
Twenty-four hours to live.
My drafting came to an end when
My best friend
Handed me the best
Twenty-four hour outline
I had ever seen.
At the top read the disclosure:
And you get into heaven no matter what.
I couldn't surpass that list with any of my own ideas.
And my obsessment was already dimming.
A year and a half or more later,
I don't make drafts.
I'm not obsessed.
I'm not going to die.
But every once in a while
When I feel like I'm not living
Life
To it's fullest,
I write "24" on my hand for
A few days.
Just to remind myself,
That at any moment,
My twenty-four hours left to live
Could be up.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
“What's wrong with you?” they say,
“Can't you calm down for just a moment,
Take a deep breath--
Slow down,
Get centered and
Relax.
Stop being so **** negative,
What's the worry,
What's the hurry?
You can't solve every problem,
Let it go--
Hey not so fast.
Maybe, yes just maybe
If you stopped being so **** frightened
Well then maybe for a moment
All those fears would dissipate,
If you just stopped your overthinking
Your hypotheticals,
Possibilities,
If you let life flow all around you
You'd have that peace you say you crave.”
But they are wrong.
Anxiety isn't nervousness.
Anxiety isn't cowardice.
Anxiety is a call to those
Whose eyes are open to the fight.
It is a certain sensitivity
An alertness;
A war machine never idle
There’s a buzzing below the surface,
There is no calm before this storm.
It is the constant sentinel
Vigilant in clash with
Paralysis,
There is no honor,
No heroism in this struggle
Whose burden countermands reward.
It is not the soldier’s nature to relax.
It is an instinct,
It is concern for you, for me, for others,
It is a special steadfast mutiny
When
Psyche fights the soul.
You say it is a weakness.
You subject me to societal court martial,
Though you cavalierly create conflicts
You say I am afraid.
But those consummate in combat,
Introspective and insightful,
True veterans of life’s battles
Know,
It's fear defines the brave.
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 12:55 AM UTC
If the world was a child
I'd make it sit in the corner
And think about its wicked ways
If love was corporeal
I'd sew it to my side
And bind it forever to me
If the Mississippi ran drunk with whiskey
I'd become a steamship captain
I'd become a riverboat queen
If my father was a rock
He'd be an impossible
Immovable monument
To sweet sweat and mulish heads
If my blood was honey
I'd bake off little pieces of my body
And feed it to the men I meet
If fear was an end table
I would throw out all my coasters
Leaving stained bare wood behind
If relationships were chemicals
I would mix them into medicines
And always label them properly
If my sister was a dragon
She'd blow glass from sand
With every breath
If the mountains breathed like human beings
I'd climb inside their inhales
And never come out again
If my mother was water
She'd flow wild and abandoned
Weaving canyons in her path
If my bed was a time machine
I'd go back to my first kiss
And just keep swimming
If I was a wolf
I would howl and howl and howl
Until I drowned out everything else
Saying take and eat take and drink do this in remembrance of me
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
-------------------------------As seen on Taste.com*-----------------------------
Ingredients:
One will need a portion of the following:
1) 50g of self-imposed isolation (optional: w/ drawn curtains)
2) a tablespoon of misguided misanthropy (store brand does the trick)
3) a propensity for experiencing negative stigma
4) ethyl alcohol enough to form parasitic relationship (approx: half bottle of grey goose)
5) 1kg of pervasive fear of the unknown (found in Future aisle amongst acquaintanceships, unwelcome hypotheticals)
6) a 3/4 cup of ground self-loathing + the root
7) lettuce
8) tomato
9) cucumber
10) onions
11) avocado
Method:
Step one: place self-imposed isolation in a slow cooker along with misguided misanthropy. Cook on low for 8 HOURS. This will make LONELINESS.
Step two: preheat oven to 200C fan-forced. take loneliness from slow-cooker then douse in alcohol before placing in oven. it's meant to burn (you're meant to burn.)
Step three: bring a *** to boil and throw negative stigma in to cook until it softens.
Step four: cut pervasive fear of the unknown into strips and braise.
Step five: plate pervasive fear and negative stigma. this combination is the foundation.
Step six: chop vegetables and mix into standard garden salad, then plate (one may plate how they wish, presentation -- to you, at least, matters not, or little; here's the one who wears tracksuit pants to parties. your parents have to remind you to brush your hair). garnish with self-loathing, decorate plate with the root of self-loathing.
Step seven: plate loneliness. truest to the recipe if loneliness is focal point of the plate. if it's cooked properly it will bleed. so will you -- just give it time.
Happy cooking!!
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 10:23 AM UTC
My name means “gracious gift of God”, but this is not what I am.
My name does not mean “gracious gift of God” because I am not the product of one,
I am the product of many.
My name means “she sees,”
But there are glasses perched on my face with every intention of helping me see what is only a few feet away.
Isis, the most powerful Egyptian Goddess lives right between Jessica and Brady.
Isis is the goddess of magic and nature, two things that I love dearly yet no one knows about.
She stays unknown, and hidden, like she does not want to be seen.
With great excuse as well, because Isis is the only accurate depiction of me within these 16 letters, 7 syllables, 3 words.
Because I am not bound by connected lines
With spaces in between that have a bigger picture,
I am not my name in the most formal way.
I am the way that my curls frizz when I’ve forgotten to treat it,
Or the way that my hand flickers and wavers over a paper
When I’m about to forget an idea.
I show myself as a simple person
But I am not just one person.
With every breath you take you remove a piece of yourself
And breathe in a piece of someone close to you.
For that reason, I am not myself, not wholly at least.
I am the way my mother cuts down people with their own words,
The way she brought me to numerous swimming classes and taught me to love the ocean,
Or maybe the way words roll off my fathers tongue like he was born with this knowledge.
Maybe I am the way my friends tell me only absolute truths,
Or the way they only think in hypotheticals.
But come to think of it now,
These have all mixed and pieced together to become a part of me.
So maybe
In the end
I really am myself.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 8:55 AM UTC
(i’ve a habit
of hiding
inside parentheses.)
it’s two o’clock in the morning
and all i can think about
is the way
your eyelashes
fluttered
after you winked at me.
photographs feed my urgency
as i drown myself
in thrashing, foamy
rivers that
glisten with memories.
we held hands
with linked fingers.
(we both acknowledged it.
i
wasn’t joking.)
with broken hearts, we were
magnetized. only
brute force
and the physical presence
of sixteen pairs of eyes
pulled us apart.
a logical explanation
was given
for the tipi. you must know
by now
that i take rationale
at face value.
if you’re a book, you’re
wide open
but your pages are written
in invisible ink.
i need to know
what you
know.
(as of now, the
you&me;
i dream of
exists only
in hypotheticals.)
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
carnal lightening reaped my brain in verves of
sickled fever, emotion sloughing clean
my tortured psyche.
and who was I to challenge
this narcotic self ablution –
yet, what of my resolve to linger
undisturbed
in bias mental disarray?
pathetic hypotheticals
engorged my blood
as nothing new.
the tension burning scars within this
manic unenlivened carcass
grew until
my hybrid self assaulted what was once
unfailed but often wrong integrity
as swifter than a scarlet blade
my conscience was absconded
to a heaven: peace, release, and ease.
had I commanded armies to retreat?
my palsied mind
was finally worth its ****** ground
and tissues thick with matters
fed on independence
lost among the strain.
I must remember where I left my genius.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
i want to talk with someone
but i don't know how to say it
i want to talk just talk
not about specific life events or what i ate for dinner last night
please don't ask me about my family or my academics
ask me why my replies get short when you ask me how i am
tell me more than
well i'm glad you're still breathing
when that's my response to your short question
i know
that i can twist my words into appearing positive even when they're not
i know that my sarcasm doesn't always transcend beyond the computer's algorithms
i know that you don't know how to mitigate my suffering
and that's fine
really
it is
so we'll talk about you and your great life adventures
even though right now
i want to talk about the poem i just read by andrea gibson
i want to talk about my writing professor and her brilliant mind and how i've never been more motivated to get to class just so i could sit there and take in the simple grandeur
i want to talk about the night sky and i know it's overrated woohoo the stars and moon huzzah for the earth's night light but have you ever noticed
how when you stand out in the middle of the road at 2 am in the morning,
the world down here is silent and flat but up there, the galaxies stretch and bend beyond the eye can see, the stars are all placed so perfectly
hapharzardly scattered about but in the right places
sometimes they're so dim, you know?
i will never stop aweing over the miracle of the sky nor will i ever not stand in the middle of the road at 2 am in the morning on a rough night just to be reminded of the beauty that's still there within each and every one of us even though sometimes we can't see it
i want to talk about the dream i had last night
and the night before that and how i am scared to fall asleep because my mind is a ******* complex and ***** thing that can thread unimaginable hypotheticals through something that was supposed to be peaceful
i don't want to sleep
i want to talk
i want to talk with someone
because i'm tired of talking to myself
-
-rgp
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 3:31 AM UTC
write a poem about me,
all inked hypotheticals
and pretty words dressed up in rationality -
give it to her
and tell her she's beautiful,
that she writes like a dream,
and leave just enough spaces
in between your favorite metaphors
to string them up with a maybe,
a silhouette of me,
just enough space to wonder
if she's only bright in my shadow -
because darling, I want to know
what it feels like
on the other side
of sadness.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 12:02 PM UTC
So I've been finding myself thinking of you as I watch the clock
Tick
And tick
And tick
My goodnight buddy,
Where have you gone?
I miss you the early morning we dont lay awake talking nonsense
Speaking in hypotheticals
We slowly gather each others intimacies
You come to me at perfect times
Easing my lips to a smile
we engage in a joyful nothing
Until the next night that ends as dawn begins
that begins with you asking me to stay up again because you wish to fall asleep to my voice.
To my goodnight buddy
I wish you sweet dreams.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
We play a dangerous game
Tossing hypotheticals into the air
And if we catch them, if we dare
Who's to say that it would be a shame
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
The sun will one day engulf the entirety of humankind.
Its ever-present flames will gulp down history in greedy swallows,
tearing away soils and sea and sky without preference or thought.
Nothing will be spared then, nothing will be 'special'.
I don't see the sense in worrying about the day that it comes down to,
in the end of things around us. No mystical words of hope or whispered phrases can prolong the chemical bonds of a supernova releasing in an outward blast of heat and fire and, eventually, death.
The fields of the Earth glitter in the early morning, oceans swell in contentment of the new morning's bright gaze, layers upon layers of creatures chitter in the dawn of a lavender sky. It's alive down here, alive and well. We won't know what hit us until we're all cinders.
It's comforting, actually. There's no anticipation. You won't know until you do, and then there's no more pain for anyone. Why should we fear it? Why not celebrate all before it and all after? Despite our disappearance, the universe goes on and on, infinite loops of infinity sprawling infinitely.
Kiss the wind, kiss your sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, parents, partners. Or don't. Fill the earth with laughter, tears, screams, whines, moans, and, in the end, rattles of breath. Or don't. The future cares not about your achievements, the sun does not choose the 'nice' people to burn last.
Worry about your present. The future is full of hypotheticals that are impossible to determine. Let not the fear of burning determine you, let you determine you.
After all, in the end, we're all humans. What makes you special is your own decision.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:08 AM UTC