way before

I thought about you; the way you held Your composure, secure in your grasp as if nothing else was more fragile. You waved goodbye to the baggage You once hauled on your back; a seamstress with many cuts that burn deep within the fabric of your life. I thought of you; taken back for while, sipping on this new found taste: a freedom that seemed to limited but the wind blew you farther, and I watched you, I watched you take hold and work your way through the maze and find your self in a vortex beyond space and time. I watched you think of a possibility and I thought for once: about being one for you.

when you do the things you do.

I stutter, silently I wish for words that would equal to her beauty.
I tumble down this hill of love, and keep falling
When you do the things you do I throw myself on the line knowing you'll be there to pick me up.
I hover effortlessly through all my sorrows as if you were the angel guiding me.
Through drowning oceans and treacherous jungles I will always have You in mind
because you do the things you do.
The smallest details and the largest of embraces never fail
And I for one will run for decades if it meant the finish line is in your arms.
Then I will whisper "I love you" and mean it ten hundred times over because when You do the things you do, I can't help but be grateful for you.

one more year.

I'm here now, ain't that something? And many say that's all that matters. If it were only that easy, just being present doesn't cut it anymore, and that's all I am: I'm here bringing nothing to the table, watching everyone struggle and I can't help, watching the green monster be the source of all these problem and the only one who can save us from it all. I wish I was in a position to call the shots, somehow have a way to say "look what I did for you" in concrete form. One more year passes and I'm still laying when I should be up and about. One more year where I wait for the day to come and be thankful for something I don't deserve. Can we skip over this month? Just this year?

much to do about nothing

She walks: decent, elegant, different from all the rest. She is that flower that blooms and that one can't keep their eyes off. She is the wind that blows softly through the cracks of the window on a spring night. She stares: blankly and one can't figure out why she does what she does. Maybe she has done too much or way too little, maybe her competition is staring at her right in the face or she might think it is. She is disabled from the lack of courage she witholds in her body. She makes everything and everyone thecause of her future and forgets she is the Creator. She has marked soles from walking to much just to make appointments that have much to do about everyone else but her, she loves and she cares just to be ripped away from it all when everything changes. She knows she shouldn't dwell when there is much to be done and yet that frown appears upon her face unknowingly. She is forever faithful to the roots in which she spurred from and becomes loyal to her new found love. Who is she? She is the one that's crying out for help and understanding because she can't speak what is clearly being shown

vital

minuscule statements left to be pondered on. breathe life into me; i beg of you.
stimulate my senses and touch me cosmically.
i am your follower because my heart takes no notice of any other leader. the pounds in my stomach are the knots untwisting..shaping into your name, and i add my self into the equation hoping I'm not the X. tell me your story and i will write it down and paint pictures of the next few pages. ill be the avid reader and sign "true fan" by your chest at the end of each journey.

PUSH

sincerity is hard to come by, with piercing lies that sting worse than third degree burns; i still stay cool. my mind retracts severely with strange thoughts that were long gone or so thought to be. i have prayed for a better tomorrow and have got it but i feel a force come over me i can not ignore. "spite me O' mighty spite-r" your sick twisted games navigating through my mind and i once again feel the definition of isolation; he stares me down and laughs in my face as i curl into my corner again. finally here comes an angel that arrives upon my shoulder and picks up my collar and i float along with it, it is now where i view the arms of warmth and then i can be convinced once more that i am not alone, that i am not a light feather being driven by the wind, i am not one to be put away momentarily while you go gallivanting. the mind is what spites me.

time

time hurts
time heals
time stresses
time is here, gone, and coming
time never leaves you like everyone else
cold, distraught.
time continues even when you have stopped
time views linear while we view circular
time creates you or destroy you with no intention of doing so
time is what you would've taken to understand how it hurts and why you heal and what stresses you so that way time can make you see.