No.
Stop, please...
How do you not know
how strong you are?
You are human aren't you-
made of star stuffs
like me? Pieced together,
clawing at existence for another day.
Each breathe belies worth,
there was effort in your breathing.
How do you not see it?
That's the difference between the living and the dead-
the shear desire to survive.
You have paid the price already
to exist.
Fight for it, life is worth
how you struggle for it.
You gain what you put in.
There is no fun in easy,
only grey, weary complacency
tired and in its bed.
Do not fall simply to your rest,
swallowed whole by puffed up sheets-
Strive for the colored life.
Splashed with passion's hues
pulled from the painted memory
of any human soul-
that is when living
truly comes to life.

You are a ridiculous woman
who makes me ponder the most...
innocuous of sentences for... anything
that might betray a semblance of something
deep beneath your simple surface.
I shouldn't like you.
At least I don't know why I do,
and there are so many reasons too.

Your freckles and chromatic shifting eyes,
telling me lies, I swear to you they are green...
Your voice and that smile with a dot to your lips
and the way you look to the world, wide open
yet

so brilliantly concealed.

The wisps of your hair, escaping from their tie
and how ***** your hands are, I know the creases
by sight; even those covered by paint.

Yet I have not felt them, clasped them in mine...
How fragile are you? You could break at my touch,
or run in fear at my boorishness.
You, such a beautiful flower, give me nothing but questions,
how can I pick you without plucking your stem,
Should I bring you water, do I block your sun?
I do not speak Flower...

So yet you elude me, without ever having moved.
While I fight to find the face past the flowers.
To find the heart of you,
the part of you that draws me in.
The reason that I like you.

The sound was sonorous
and never loud.
It carried casually, reverberating implausibly through the marrow;
Echoing off edges, imperfections and cavernous recesses.
it sounded softly, spreading through the soul’s spaces.
It had charisma.
Attraction.
Punctuation.
It sung in silence, basked in pauses.

It had powerful movements,
a flame brought to fruition from
single ember to raging forest fire.
The sentences beat strokes
and fanned the inferno of thought.
It was heat to power cogs.
Each phrase moved mental turbines
to power lights in neural cities,
to pass as a light through darkness.

As much as it ached with fire of meaning,
the chords of vocal music flow long,
like rivers strummed by fingers strong as giants.
Its sound undulates among the minds terrain.
With the waves of simple symphony,
a single voice can deluge on the ocean of thoughts,
washing out weaker words, weaker voices,  
and erode the heart of society
leaving the sediment of something new
to glimmer in the river bed.

Why don't I want to sleep,
do I earn for a few extra
paltry hours in a half light
basking in a realm of quiet stillness
filled only with the sounds
of murmured fakery.
What warmth does the yellow glow
cast on the walls by
lonesome floor lamps afford me.
Outside of the door is blackness
and inside of the door
is merely an illusion of lightness,
black will descend as light recedes.
Do I fear my dreams in the dark,
in the place where life walks true-
am I scared to be the demon
that hides within the bed.
Where will my midnight musings take me
when unbridled by my walls
left free to roam through every thought?
Where did I leave its food?
I fear I left it where I tread the most
in what should be dark recesses
but now have over grown my mind.
Maybe I cling to light to not be overthrown,
by the parts of me that have grown wild
in my absent, uncaring ways.
What now lurks within the empty halls
of my sad forgotten heart.
Maybe we will reconcile and I will be
chased into the light,
or then again those beasts within
may get the best of me
and I will live a nightmare
till I wake again.

I am the average
of everyone around me,
a culmination of personalities
to create a person new.

Originality is as the ocean bottom,
seen from my surface
like a clear glass lake
and brought above the depths
by careful copying.

Each article makes up me,
an existence fragile,
changed by single moments
and tiny moving,
dust blown about a breeze.

As a scale tipping
life of mine,
is merely the summation
of motes resting
one on another,
by another,
with another.

Just so, each of us
is just the one
who passed after those before
and what we see
is because we are giants
on the shoulders
of giants.

quiet halls,
that echo with a breath-
cascading dust down darkened halls
softly lit, as though they are at rest.
The rooms so stark,
within the gloom, active still
as ghosts of past
go flitting through the walls,
faint perfume lingers as their scent-
the air feels warm
with loving ties,
and words spoke in silence
yet always understood.
The house made of wood and stone
collected some of what lived within
and the warmth made this house
a home.

A thousand voices crying out
look at me,
"I  AM SAD"
aren't we all.
its that time, to be sad,
for loneliness
for a dark pit of violent apathy
with sides lubricated by ineptitude and blood
from scrapes from past attempts.
Its hard to climb out of that pit
sadness placed us in

with all the others.

so make a friend,
bandage up their scrapes and bruises
your clothes don't make much use
in a place where cold can't touch you
and light is not invented.

light up another person so they might light up you.