Beautiful and delicate, giving off a sweet aroma, intoxicating the naive. Like a rose, you are dangerous. Preying on the innocent with false smiles and deceiving looks. Not everything meets the eye. You engulf the ignorant in a dark abyss of unlawful hopes and desires. You trick them, like the monster you are. Like a rose, you don't know how you lie. When looking at a rose, you stare at the beauty, not the danger. Thorns sneak up and ***** your finger, drawing out your precious red, plentiful fountain of life. However, without it's petals, it would be nothing but a thorned stem. Like you, your nothing without your lies. The rose loses it's beauty and alluring scent, and you lose your looks and charm. Underneath, you are just a hungry thorn on a stem, waiting toget a trickle of blood upon your tip.

Silence
A reminder of years long since passed
gazing at the stars blazing history
counting the years
and the scar tissue

Fragile reminders of misuse
karmic justice and accidents
the uneventful days
always bring me back to this

Strength found in moments of exactitude
that only time can reveil
for the present carries on so quickly
the lesson concealed until its history

To revisit the spell of dizzy memory
is like floating on a cloud above the scene
in which you can watch it play
knowingly

The ability to change it
so far from reach
you must wait for the repeat
in the hope that now you'll
possess the eyes to see

To believe that everything we encounter
is formulated and manifested
from our own subconscious
Is to believe that we have complete control
of our own destinys

Never being a victim of another
rather attracting them with our own
need to percieve a message
As if looking through the eyes of your true being

We are all projections
of ourselves and only this
and the more we reject this notion
the longer the suffering will persist

Life is a journey full of questions
uncertainty is found in each persons heart
wavering in what can be trusted and
what can not

But this secret this law has no alternative
goal other than catering directed to spirit
it ask not for your money nor your soul
it only reflects an ultimate goal

To answer the questions that are not easily found
such as Who am I?
and What do I want?
The soul is infinite and the universe unbiased

Not everything we find will be favorable
but take it in stride and trust that you needed
whatever is bestowed upon you and your sight
Each day a reflection of spirit

Walking through a tunnel,
a cage,
barbed wire linking.
Scream, scream,
ache through the air,
matching voice to wind as it tosses white pine needles
through your hair, around your face,
leaves scratching dry pavement,
mixing with chinese takeout cartons
and Dunkin Donuts straws.
Everything seems heavy
boots, head, belly,
gravity strengthens and
your legs strain.
They watch you zooming by comfortable and spiteful and angry
oblivious,
curious.
Each breath forces itself shakily from your lungs and your heart beats quick and your arms strain against the bag on your shoulders and all you want to do is
RUN run run feel things disappear behind your back feel your hair lift off your neck feel feet hit pavement and muscles flex, feel your body pushing through air and emptiness, pushing forward with a goal to get somewhere. RUN but your boots are too heavy and your eyes weigh you down as they stare at your feet as you walk, as you walk,
as you walk.

You're wearing too many rings,
just like me.
You're wearing glasses,
just like me. (except mine don't fix my eyes because my eyes are fixed fine)
You're calling me a Little Monster
and I'm laughing, giggling, because monsters don't exist
(except in the closet and in the basement and inside the vacuum)
and you're smiling at me and everything's gold from the fire.
You are wearing an office-shirt, with a collar and a pocket and buttons
tucked into your brown pants
almost like it's seven thirty in the morning, every morning
except it's not. It's Christmas Eve Eve, and I know that because Mama told me
because that's why Grammy and Grampy and Aunts and Uncles and Cousins are being loud in the Living Room
(which is weird because why isn't the kitchen called the Eating Room or our bedrooms called the Sleeping Rooms)
and I know that you're wearing serious-clothes because that's What Grammy Wants to See
and I've been waiting for this day for a whole year. Which is like forever.

I ask for a story and your face wrinkles a little because
I ask for them all the time, I collect them like old people collect money and bank letters and shoes
and you're getting tired of telling them, probably,
but I want the air to shimmer behind your voice
and I want to be the only one that hears it
so I beg.

And you tell me about a magic carpet you had when you were a boy
about fruit--like bananas and apples and kumquats--coming to life
about the time Santa slept late
about when dragons used to be pets and how we used to fly them like cars

and the air is still shimmering but
I'm getting sad
sad,
which I never do when you tell stories
because I'm realizing that all your stories have already happened.
They're ghosts, gone by, never coming back,
beautiful things lost, disappeared.
And you never tell me about the future
because you don't know it any better than I do
and the world seems kind of scary,
too big for me,
ready to **** me in like the vacuum.

You stop your voice, you peek at me
and see my eyes
and then you hug me
all warm because we're by the fire
and the room is silent except for the crackles and snaps
and voices coming from downstairs.

And your shirt is soft and I'm crying
hot water leaks from my eyes, falling down beside my nose
because no one knows the future and it's all too perfect right now.
And you let me go and you kiss my forehead and
say "is it all better now?"
and I nod because I love you
not that I know what love is, but it feels that way
and I'm safe.