My own two hands

By this point, 

I'm almost positive that I was born in the right era. 

Although I love the light touches of a past that was never meant to be mine, 

I created my own self from the scraps of both. 

Equally beautiful, and both happening simultaneously.

When I matter most to those I thought that I valued, 

all will be too late and forgiven for the sake of preserved time. 

And when I exit this terror,

I hope that there won't be too much speculation of what I've done.

I will have done what was best for me, 

for it is not my duty as one cell in the sea to constantly see the whole collective ocean.

That mass of gorgeous water is not in my juristiction of control.

I do not feel half of the nerves that I used to hit on tables when I pass by bolders,

and I see no use in the marveling of the branches that test the viscosity of my skin.

I will have grown a new coat to keep my bones whole and warm.

I do not long for the journey to be completely over yet,

but I can no longer ignore the brief pauses that I've taken along the way,

This is no longer a life that I can live ignoring the things that I've done.

They may not have been much in the grand scheme of things, 

for I don't long to make the most recognizable mark on the world,

but I now know that I am capable of both great and greatly terrible things.

And with my two hands, I can mend the majority of them, or at least try to,

but I can only patch over the same hole so many times

before the guilty looking plaster begins to frown back at me. 

As I'm taking my last breaths in this unforgiving and perpetually distant air,

I am savoring the elevation of my chest,

because I have no idea how many more times I'll be able to do that.

In this era of various discovery,

I will know things that it will take decades for others to stumble upon by chance, 

and others will be privy to my dizziest daydreams that I may not ever know about.

At this point in time, 

I am completely sure that I am meant to be here.

I don't particularly care why, for that is not part of the plot that I write.

In fact, and plot that I think of is part of another, 

that will weave itself amongst the other millions that go undocumented, 

and make itself at home with the woodwork that may never come to fruition.

I will not put the rest of my life in a box labeled "expectations" with a strip of tape,

and I will not label it at all. 

What I will do and what I have done will overlap like blades in ice,

and perhaps I just won't see the zamboni

before swerving over my own cookie cut-out mistakes.

I will create the most pristine lines on my way to wherever it is will soothe my heart a bit

from the cold that I've let in through leaving the door ajar

with the hope that fresh air would stop me from falling ill.

Nothing is preventable,

and events that were meant to happen will unfold as they may. 

The present is a destiny in and of itself, 

just as the past was meant to occur the way that it did,

it's predecessor must follow the same rules. 

Perhaps at some point, 

I should make a hand-turkey, 

just to resize the damage that I can do, 

and consider before I go in with fingers painted red on a nearly alabaster canvas. 

They are little devils getting themselves into different colors

that I once thought would work.

And for the briefest of moments, they did. 

Orange and green aren't the best combination,

however I still think that the right two shades at the exact same time would be amazing. 

But at the same time, 

I'm not that much of an artist in this sense,

and this isn't my home field. 

I lurk in darkened corners and despicable hallways still,

and after I'm able to leave there,

perhaps I might change my mind-set. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

It all fell to somewhere anyway

He wrote it for her, 

and it was everything that I would have expected from him. 

He wrote the magnum opus to their demise as a unit,

and somehow took all of it back in one fell swoop of his wrist. 

Perhaps it wasn't something that I should have exposed myself to for the time being,

but it's in my mind,

my anxious, constantly processing mind, 

that there will never be a way to recover the lost ground of

a heart lost in such disarray and debris. 

I went down with it like the sinking ship that I myself would soon lead into the ground,

my captain's hat clawing significance as though there were any to begin with.

Such a panic in one soul to behold. 

The wreckage of something that promised to be amazing, 

and worth all of the waiting done before. 

I watched it carefully like a falling leaf that no one bothered to pay enough attention to 

because they had their own breezes to hide from,

God forbid they throw caution to the wind that would take them someplace

all worth the risk.

But I digress,

he wrote it for her with the passion of a thousand suns and the fury of

the hounds of hell combined. 

He took their story and orchestrated it in his mind

using what he knew that he didn't have enough of

to fully emote what everyone already knew. 

He didn't have to, but it was a tale for the ages,

a true sight to behold with all of the silk and red sin of the goriest wars to be fought.

Somehow without even throwing the first punch,

al of it was over and the ambulance arrived without even the faintest whisper to be heard. 

I read it as though it would be the last thing that I did because with that note, 

a good part of him died, 

and I allowed my thoughts to travel down the rabbit hole with him as he drowned.

I felt all of the pain right along with him through this one sheet of paper

that I don't even think he cared to show anyone else.

I'm not sure if I wished that he did.

For after that one slip of parchment, a field of rotten roses that would have, 

on any other day, 

spelled out her name in their crimson glow,

fell from the ceiling that I never trusted anyway.

And all of this had only made me yearn

for the collapsing of the ground that I had always trusted far too well. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

Sponge-like

Contrary to popular belief, 

there are a myriad of broken things that can never be fixed. 

This might not have been

the most popular way of thought amongst the majority of society, 

but it was definitely something that had

floated through my mind for the better part of my life. 

Now that the belief in that has completely crashed into the ground, 

I'm a little bit perturbed as to where to go from here. 

Similar to most new thoughts and conspiracies of human nature that pop into my head,

this wasn't planned.

But for some reason I haven't gotten to the usual stage in my thought process 

where I determine that this is for the better.

My instincts are telling me not to leave this alone, 

but everything surrounding me leads me in the other direction. 

And being that human beings are

the most surprising creatures that I have had the privelge of encountering, 

I can't seem to predict the outcome of any path that I could take. 

I was given a voice so that I might use it to help others,

but I'm not quite sure if it's a wise idea to use it to help myself. 

It was my knife, I know that it was, and I twisted it I know,

but I just don't think that I should leave it and walk away. 

Taking it back and stopping the bleeding just seems like the best way for me to fix this.

I don't want to believe that there are things

that break and never glue themselves back together. 

Beyond this one portion of mistakes that I will make in my life,

there will be an infinite number of extras. 

They will weigh into my shoulders like a rigged anvil and they will hunch my back 

so far to the point that I forget what posture is. 

However, for this particular instance, 

I think that I can pry them off for the briefest moment, 

just to splatter out the apology that I've been hoarding in my pocket. 

It will be the most crinkled, stained,

slip of remorse,

but I can only hope that it's almost enough. 

And somehow, while I try to fix my past mistakes, 

I'm making newer ones in the process. 

I don't know if I canfix evereything, 

but I still think that it's important that I try my best before shutting down.

But after that,

I think I might shut down for a while, 

try not to make any big changes to my brain for a while.

Well, change happens constantly, 

but I think that allowing life's natural course

to flow through my head is what's best for right now. 

I feel pretty okay with just turning off all of the lights

and soaking up the absence of buzzing energy. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

Fish tanks of things I no longer own

On this here almost empty stage, I present to you two cloaked tanks, 

both of which you might take with you upon your impending exit of my mind. 

However, you may only remove one cloak from either tank.

Now I didn't make the rules.

In fact, if I'd had it my way. I'd have performed amateur surgery to give you my limbs,

knowing full well that you are who they'd have mercilessly clung to.

My arms, beings of their own who'd have reached for you, despite my better judgement.

And my legs, who would probaby still run a marathon to you at the drop of a hat.

But as you can see, my limbs are right here, recoiling at your touch,

so we can eliminate those from your suspicions as to what lies 

beneath the heavy burgundy curtains that separate you from you do not yet know yet

is me. 

These are not your prizes,

nor your consolation delights. 

I designed those two fifty-six gallon tanks for your health,

and your happiness.

If you're so keen to know what I intended for you to have before you choose both and more,

it was my kindness within a box of deep, dark chocolate,

my compassion fused into a tissue box.

Yet that was only half of my ability to shower you with gifts. 

In the other tank, my love

in each wing of the butterflies that I ripped from the depths of my stomach,

just to show you that they were once there. 

Those silly little creatures gave the other prizes life, 

and while it's curteous to give you all of them,

I wanted to be rid of them like a middle-aged mother with her clothes from friskier times. 

You were an awful idea, but I dreamt you up in such a way

that I was almost enough for you. 

And while it was a risk to ask you here,

I was hoping for you to bring reliable greed with you in your trunk like the body

of who I thought you were.

You loved being a victim, and I had the perfect care package to have you come running.

But I never thought that you'd have taken more than both halves of my offerings. 

I presented you with two choices, 

but you held me in your hands and took what I'd never have been prepared to give.

You took your already bloodied claws into my chest, 

broke my bones, and tested out my heart like one would test a pin cushion. 

I kept trying to meet your eyes, but they were empty.

I heard, and even more sharply felt every crack,

as you savoringly retreated from my being. 

For in the midst of my gathering the cloaks and tanks of my own, 

I had forgotten your collection of similar artifacts in your bookshelf,

They, and now I, are yours to read and mock,

and I shall remind you that in the hollow that you have carved,

I will reproduce my ribs and within will become a moss, 

A fern of my dreams, and perhaps at some point, 

A flower will bloom amongst my greenery,

and I will carry it to you, front and center,

and wear it as a corsage.  

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

A cynical skin

I always find it strange when I start to feel something that I hadn't felt in a long time, 

and then when it hits, it hurts so much more than it did to start. 

And while it hasn't completely harshed my mellow, 

I'm hitting a slight slump in the emotions that I can sense in my mind. 

It was kind of like I had this dream where I was an actual functioning human,  

but now I'm starting to feel the ink from my forehead stamp that read "False alarm"-

and not in terms of pregnancy- seep into my all-too-open pores. 

It wasn't something that was slammed into my skull like most bad news,

but the searing cold black ink dark enough to mar skin without discrimination of any kind. 

Funny, I forgot the social justice warrior that pain was.

A royal bitch to any and everyone, regardless of gender, race, and sexuality. 

I've never been so disappointed in being a part of such an accepting group. 

Then that one solid feeling starts to spread like the most cynical smile

and it revolutionalizes my way of thought until it was my fault entirely. 

Perhaps it was my ill doing that I hadn't noticed until now. 

Or better yet, a sign that I should back away from the fire completely and ensure that

I don't even get a whiff of it again. 

If there were any reason to believe that I'm fine, I'd love to be seeing it right about now. 

The clacking of keys and the sound of previously soothing voices

don't really make me feel as bundled up from my own tundra like they should. 

There have been no broken promises, in fact this was the most predictable outcome that I could've whipped up if I'd been given the whole situation to begin with. 

And although my view is still bleared as my eyes from crying, 

I think that the bleak part of my outlook shows to be evident at all times. 

Sometimes it's nice to know that there are permanent parts of you that never change. 

As much as I was trying to vote against it in my mind, 

I've never seen a better time than now to embrace the cynical skin that I've been living in. 

Upon looking directly at the definition of the word, 

that seems like the brightest option I have toward enlightenment of my mind-set. 

I know that I'd had hints of this in me from the beginning of my social interactions, 

but now I want to take the lever of balance and shift it completely in my favor. 

Now, somewhere in my mind I'm aware that this may not be the best option, 

but also, I don't think that I care that much anymore. 

That cynical smile is full after all,

and my mother always told me to make sure that my teeth were pearly and white. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

The Family Photo Album

To all of my near and far destinations, 

I carry an old photo album.

Not too bulky,

but not thin in any respect. 

I grew up to the daunting jingle of my mother's voice incessantly reminding me 

that we eventually forget everything. 

I always thought that she had a perpetual fear of dementia,

justified by her losing the appearances of her late parents from her memory.

And while as a youth I have an elephants' memory-

something I'd never ask for again in the next life-

I know that remembering wil never be enough.

A crystal clear motion picture will never be something to be lived in.

I know why she wants everything that she lost back.

And in turn she makes me a time-machine of her shaky snapshots,

she lifts a burden with her smiling or teary expression of a moment.

Recollections on all of its pages, each one compeltely different,

even if they were taken within disparate seconds of each other

by my own indifferent hands. 

I usually still despise taking pictures, but I know that on a level,

she needs them.

We all have some sort of anchor that reminds us of who we are.

In a sea of indentities, I suppose I forgot that she may have lost hers.

Perhaps I can't understand it right now because I don't yet have a solid identity.

On occasion, I ponder what it might be like to never develop one. 

No name plastered for action to be tied to.

For this particular moment, I'm enjoying the prospect of being under the radar,

nothing to permanent aside from my memories and phtographs. 

Perhaps I dislike the confrontation of the

artificial light sprung onto my eyes by the flash. 

"Pictures are memories" she chants,

and perhaps I hate them because 

I have so much that I don't wish to remember. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

Flashing vacancy sign

As well as the life that I wish you, 

I love the feeling of not starving for you every day. 

For without your salt water in my eyes,

things became abundantly clear. 

I don't feel the need to be anything other than myself.

The loose jeans and my inexperienced lips just right,

and I've become content with the fact that you are territory 

that I no longer have the desire to chart. 

The plundering of my pulse will stop,

or grow another reason,

and you will leave as you always do,

and I will keep my stopwatch calculating how many seconds I can hold a smile,

instead of the ones I spend holding back frowns. 

You aren't here with me, 

so yoiu no longer take up space in my books.

I have so much left to do, and I have become cool with the uncouth of it all.

If I were ever meant to be with you in any way, even in this great distance, 

I wouldn't have been so ready and willing to give you both of my hands

to swat away any descrepancies from your eyes, my fault or not. 

I could never have been with someone who could be so emotionless

as I felt everything so immensely. 

There is no way for you to reach omnipresence in my life if I no longer allow you to. 

It is now that you are gone that

I can close my eyes and not have your waving to me behind them.

I suppose this is what most people would call "Giving up the ghost". 

I've truly never had a more horation departure in my life. 

Having you leave months ago, and to only feel and hear your car start up to go now. 

Byfar the most miraculous delayed reaction to have taken place. 

You were a comfortable tee-shirt that I'd sleep in, 

but I should have drawn more from the tears in the sleeves, 

or the creases that never came out. 

Wearing you was fine, putting you in drawers were awful,

but I'd have never known that it was because you never belonged in them. 

I could have sworn that I saw you in a store window just the other day, 

I think they were promoting what the youth would call the "grunge aesthetic",

you asked me how I was and I walked away. 

This time it felt right and just to leave, no longer screaming as I usually would. 

But I'm pretty sure that you never noticed this time, 

there were people to replace me by the time I got far enough away for you to look vacant.

And although you've left me feeling like a guest in my own body, 

it's a place that I'm glad to rent, more than glad to pick up your slack.

The place has been looking a bit sparce, and the lights don't really 

sparkle the way that they did when you were here to fix them,

but she developed the atmosphere that you won't ever have the honor to imagine

in your dizziest daydreams.

Before you she could have been the whole damn hotel

with no vacancy and standing room only. 

But for now, she's a stark room, where the same two people share coffee every week,

and walk off to the crunch of cold and crisp autumn leaves.

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace.