dedicated to:

what's funny
is that none of them
would appreciate it
if they knew that it was written
about them.

snails are beautiful creatures even if they are ugly.

life was in a minor key when you came;
and i realize that all those flats
grated against your perfectly melodious tune.
the harmonies couldn't make up for the sadness,
could they?

but still i savor every note,
even though sometimes
it feels as though i'm living in sixteenths.
and the discord descends inescapably,
and i am watching myself living a depressing blur.

but i guess
it just makes
a key change
that much more
beautiful.

inside of me.

i don't know who i am.
i'll be honest: my ideals have turned into shadows,
and i've lately been content to accuse others of losing theirs.
but what are mine?
who am i?
the characters that make themselves visible after years of introspect
have hidden among my greeds and faults.
and i'm left by myself again,
because reconciliation is barely enough to procure
the friends inside of me.

infinetesimile

for once i am comfortable in the dark as in the light.
i'm lying the wrong way,
my head pointing downhill.
but it's okay.
because even though the blood is rushing to my head,
i am happy.

how i imagine your last day of school.

for every moment i am sad,
show me a smile.
and every time i cry,
give me your joy.

we'll lie on a hill and stare at the stars,
each of us not saying
what we think.
in a circle... as many of us as i care to imagine.

and i think,
'let it last forever,'
even though i know it won't,
and eventually we'll all go.

but right now,
every inch of grass seems softer
than anything i've ever touched,
and the stars will never be this bright again,
and your eyes reflect them perfectly,
dark; nobody would know whether they were hazel
or blue; and the ant that crawls across me
is for once, welcome. because i can see it loving.
and i am glad.

to dead heroes

i'm at a loss.
aren't you too pretty to be found the way you were?
don't you know about all the people who ever looked up to you?
or maybe life just gets too mundane for some men;
maybe there was just an empty spot for another dead hero.

life can sing its simple melody, i suppose.
days will pass and the sun will fade again.
and we're dropping like flies down here...
why shouldn't it be you today?

but still...
inexplicable remorse washes in,
and i remember; just days ago i spoke of you.
i don't remember what i said. it doesn't matter.
these days,
you're a blank face or a dead hero.

maybe that's why you did it.

a beautiful regurgitation

tumble fly somersault jump
down up around
swinging stooping sighing
smiles fears apathies passions
love hate
determination vilification recreation
tears joys
and everything else.

it's all there -
just choose which ones you want.