Real communication
Has been lost
In the depths
Of the cloud.

True feeling
Is seldom seen-
Now, thoughts
Are shown
Through emojis.

Does anyone feel
The wholesomeness
Of somebody else's
Voice anymore?

The smell of their
Skin, the faces
That they make, or
Simply- their presence.

Conversations are
Much more
Than the words
Typed out on a
Smartphone screen.

People are meant
To actually be
Seen.

Validity is not a virtue;
For it is you
And only you
Who can prove yourself true.
A breathing being-
Only if you want to be anything
But a spec of dust,
Searching for validity
In a society
Which has done nothing for thee.
The real virtue is individuality-
The individual
Is valid enough
For themselves.

Sometimes I feel as if
You have something to say;
Like it is on the tip of your tongue...
But you push it away,
And swallow those words
That would create sentences,
Which would develop paragraphs
That would have meaning.
Those significant phrases-
Shunned and Lost,
Deep into the depths
Of your conscience.
I do realize that this
May seem like over-analyzation,
But I see a glimmer in your eye
That deserves to turn into
Fireworks.

Running through ancient Appalachia
Frolicking without a care
She had never felt more joy-
Never felt less aware.

As they followed the waterfall trail,
There was no time to spare-
Time was irrelevant,
As they were breathing in clean air.

Treetops swirling into one another,
Breeze slow and soft,
Sweeping salty tears off of her cheek-
They were lost.

Lost in their own minds,
Nothing left to exhaust.
Inspiration was the mountain peak-
Floral scents aloft.

Driving in a spiral
Down the rugged cracked road-
They pulled off to the side,
Anxieties and heart rates slowed.

There they found two cement half-
Pipes peering over the mountain side
They climbed down, sat in their grasps-
Contently contemplating their lives.

She turned to her love
To ask what he was doing.
He said “writing down ideas”

There, she saw her fate.

Weight lifted,
Darkness fading into light.
Felt in my fingertips,
And my mind.
Brightened eyes,
Looking for a smile.
The scars are fading into
Thin lines,
Barely noticed by a passer by.
No more tear-streaked cheeks,
Salt droplets replaced with rosy tints.
Sleeves rolled up,
Nothing to be ashamed of.

I never knew
That I could ever feel
So renewed.
But what a wonderful thing,
Is the serenity
That is coursing through my veins.
Those little roads
Each leading a path of righteousness,
Heading towards an accepting overload;
One that grows wildflowers
On my brightened mind.
No more tears as spring showers,
Or a darkness of which the light, I cannot find.
There is a new view,
That the light has led me to-
And I cannot
Be more thankful!

I, in a field amongst my peers;
We are so similar
Almost all the same-
We grow together
From the soil beneath
Our stems, our roots
Combining, clustering,
We are all connected.
     I feel like I am different though,
     I have my own stem
     My own hue of pink
     My own pretty petals
     My own green leaves
     My own movement
     My own form of life.
I realize there are others
That look like me,
That grow like me,
That sway in the wind as I do.
     But I also know that
     I am my own flower-
     I am not like the rest-
     I am an individual.
This field of wildflowers,
Filled with stems and petals
That may seem the same-
Yet so exceptionally different,
Is simply a community.
What makes this vast meadow
So whole and complete,
Is every distinct blossom
Coming together-
Creating a natural
Convergence of unique,
Beautiful, living beings.

How long will the road go?
The sky is singing for me…
As this tumbling machine stretches
Into the lengths of the everlasting abyss,
The winds caress skin,
I am home.

If you brush off what we say,
We will rip your ears off with our words-
Because our opinions matter.
We can be just as intelligent,
If not more so
Than you are.

But in your mind,
Because we have vaginas,
And you have a *****,
The people whom with you share
The same kind of genitals are oh so
Much more creative than us.

But we will nail it into your stubborn
Skull, the fact that women matter.
We can be intellectuals.
We can be in galleries.
We can do your ******* job-
If we even want to in the first place.
Our opinions are valid and relevant.
We do not deserve to be brushed off
As if we do not have minds of our own.

We refuse to go through torture
To ‘earn’ your respect.
Respect that we do not even need
To be able to succeed.

How does one live a life
So contradictory?
With a melancholy mind,
And a hopeful heart-
The days go on…

Freedom is sweet,
like the rain.*
My darkness has not subsided,
But has rather been enlightened-
A candlewick flickering…
Brought unto the sun.
An aura evading waves of renewal
Glimmering violet and indigo,
Happiness in vertigo.
An awakening of willingness
To begin the great vagabondage
That most refer to as the future.
More so; the unknown.
And it is okay to not know-
The unseen is mesmerizing.

strong spirits

welcoming in nature-

powerful in instinct-

trying to find a moral compass-

one that they can believe in,

with all of their ****** hearts

searching for complete harmony

in a static world, charged by the sun.

their own saturated, sturdy bodies

learning to not know-

experiencing the now-

accepting that simplicity is beautiful-

realizing that no life has to be so complex.

—

no life needs to have so many thumbtacks

stuck in its cork board,

hanging on its bedroom wall-

only to be stared at by its owner

to distract from the present-

to keep sentimentality afloat-

to compare and contrast;

to remind a tired soul

of better moments and feelings

in its personal history.

but when those tiny memoirs

are reminisced upon,

the soul becomes vulnerable-

susceptible to reminding itself

of memories it does not want

to have as its own.

memories most likely forgotten-

blocked, and left somewhere

in the owner’s brain-

lost, due to lack of importance-

deterred from its conscious-

pushed back into its energy’s

open life storage, unconsciousness.

—

those memories like sharp tacks,

metal tips, dropped and unseen-

abandoned in a grey **** carpet-

left there so many months ago-

waiting for their owner

to decide their fate-

to either lay its bare foot

upon their thin metal,

creating a river of crimson-

so they may be finished with

their metaphorical life-

thrown in the trash can-

or they could taste the sweetness

of not being crushed-

of having one more day

to become as best as they can be-

to enjoy the soft, scraggily **** carpet-

to be unwanted, unfounded-

to aide in the growth of the now-

by refusing to resurface.

those memories, remembered or not-

are locked behind the purple indents

above the owner’s cheekbones-

below its red, puffy eyes-

violet crescents-

slowly caused by sleeplessness

and lack of nutrition.

—

if the past was not meant

to be consistently remembered,

why does humanity constantly try

to decode the future?

recorded history is meant so

living beings will not

repeat previous mistakes-

the human race is a cycle-

history will repeat itself-

mistakes and all-

the future is completely unknown.

predictions are never certain-

why spend the life one was given

trying to figure out why humanity

exists the way it does-

when in actuality, the researcher

is missing out on humanity as it is.

why try to figure out what happens

when someone’s energy is depleted-

when a mind is laid to rest, dead.

while searching, one is losing out

on actually being alive-

no one knows exactly

what happens when mortals die-

humans have been searching

ever since they developed cognizant

abilities, conscious minds…

the future will happen eventually-

people will experience it when it is time-

it is wasteful to spend one’s life

always looking for the answer-

instead of celebrating, and exploring

the earth that has given humanity

endless opportunities to love.

—

ghosts of creative minds

walking amongst the living-

ghosts encased in flesh

with no memory of their past lives-

their auras radiating-

saturated with ambition and kindness

following different dreams-

floating toward their goals

in a similar manner,

all with the same amount

of vigor and curiosity-

young (old) spirits;

hoping for their fellow

outspoken, anxious specters

to listen, and notice their potential-

to make their words understood-

to show their many points of view-

to let go of their pasts-

to stop worrying about the future-

to live in the present.

intelligent, brightly glowing entities-

the ones with flowing energies,

pigmented with color-

the ones striving for positivity;

the ones who really wish

for just one simple thing-

only for their peers

to consider clarity

as a degree or two on their own,

individual moral compasses.

to love this beautiful world

with no bias, with equality,

with excitement, and with

virtuous appreciation of life

as a common mystery-

one that would end a lot better

if it was left unsolved.

Dewey and Brisk…
Sweet nothingness-
Vast and real
You entice me.
Once life surrounds
A soul-
And starts to sing
A sweet melody,
The one of dawn.
Under violet light,
Restless and sleepless-
Signs of renewal.

Kiss your lover gently, with care
Aide those in need
Realize the good in yourself
Make the best of what you have
And the universe will grant you
                with kindness.

inadequacy is not a feeling of sadness;
more so one filled with great anger
and a sense of betrayal.
don’t let yourself
get to your head
because-
soon-
it will surely
force your happiness
dead.

The land is colorful,
Full of life and luster,
Continuous and forgiving.
Forgiving of me.
Forgive the love that is
Taken for granted in the
Relationships of your
Parents -
She takes the dagger
And follows her fate
Down the alleyway
To forget everything
That has happened
In her past fate -
Unnoticed.
She listens to the clip
Claps of her heels on the
Pavement
Down the alleyway.
Eternity is above her headboard
When she sleeps -
Eating at her dreams,
Waiting to be noticed.
She has writer's block -
Which is not writer's block
But a lack of faith in
Language.
She is sad -
Sad for the poor
And the ones who
Roam the streets at night,
During the twilight.
She goes to sleep
Thankful,
Although most
Think she is not.

Am I not seeing things as they really are?
If so, then what am I seeing?
I do not want a filter.
Or, maybe it is that I am seeing things as they are,
And you are seeing things as you want them to be.
But that is not how they should be,
Because your view
Is skewed.

How deafening that sound was,
The one I remember so well-
It came from hell,
Sent through a screaming spell
That infested my mind.
Then life started to truly begin-
Soon the screams
Turned to laughter,
And the hellish feel
No longer burned my skin.
Soon, being now.
Now, being forever.

How must you expect me to succeed,
When you gave up your dreams
So long ago?
You have given me everything,
Which I will never forget-
You made me who I am.
But settling for an average life
Seems so much less than what you Wanted…
Than what you are worthy of having
As your own.
You have the vigor and perspicacity
To achieve more,
To achieve the contentment
That you very much deserve.
There is still so much time
That we have as living, breathing beings
On this beautiful,
Oscillating sphere of dust.
So need not worry,
I will be a part of this realization
When it embraces your consciences.
And when that time comes,
I hope that you will read
Upon this line,
And be proud of me-
As well as yourselves.
*Someday,
When we have started our lives,
You will too-
It is an inevitable truth.

The entirety of someone or none at all
Whole heart, or a broken one
To become a stranger or to fall
Giant storm, or the soft sun
Sinking into a lasting twilight,
The dark, tedious night.

growing up too quickly
has left me so far behind.
and when reality kicks in,
i think of you-
i keep my mind distracted.
and the air really did smell sweet tonight…
but now, it has turned sour.