Beautiful

Call her beautiful, because thats what she is.

With that I almost didn't want to write another word for that says everything I feel. She is beautiful so I let her know. To think she is beautiful is to think she is perfect. Only one person can see another as beautiful. The word means something far beyond the physical appearance. It means you seem perfection in imperfection, harmony in chaos. How the heart replaces the eyes so you see something else, or what something truly is. For she is beautiful, I see her with my heart. I don't not feel her at my side, I feel her within me. Her life and her heart beat with mine. Because everytime my heart beats I feel her.

Where is me.

He sits alone in a dim room, calming music fills the room as he watches a world, another world living and breathing in the emptiness of space. This is me. He stands in an empty field, alone feeling the soul of the wind and the earth flow through him. This is me. He enters the world of the music, watching the vibrations in the form of colors and shapes in his mind. Feeling a story unravel in the sounds without words. This is me. He looks into the blank screen of a computer, conjuring other worlds to express himself to others. This is me. He sits, frustrated that his inspiration has left him. This is me. He wonders about the prison of his mind, fighting against the thoughts and troubles in life. This is me. He is angry, with no outlet to conduct besides the walls. This is me. His heart barley holding up, his fists, hurt and red.... he is left wanting more. This is me. He let's himself become distracted so he will forget his anger and his pain. This is me. He smiles as the distress sits ignored. This is not me. He cries without reason and presses the pedal to the floor feeling his heart race, no longer caring about life. This is not me. He realised the roar of the engine could one day of even then, be the sound of his death. This is not me. He resumes his day, again forgetting the extremes his mind wonders to. This is not me. He is blank, mind fuzzy and congested. He doesn't know what to do or what to say. He doesn't know if what is happening to him needs to stop or needs to be delt with and endured. This is not me. He again questions what is life. This is my false peace.

Sitting in Dream

I walk along this small path, I'm not sure where I'm heading. Beneath my feet are wooden planks. Worn from the years of men and demon traveling from place to place. Collection stories of peoples intent and they traverse. This small path connects the bodies of land, two small islands bathed in moon light. Now that the blanket of night has been ap gently layer over the people who dwell here, the spirits rise. Spirits of joy, harmony, peace, unity... they all rise into the air, they rise into us. Now I sit, I sit of the edge of the world, looking off into a murky space that is constantly shifting. I see the thoughts of one million souls ripple through space and time. The water is so beautiful at night. The small bugs that cry light along the waters surface, how the fire of lanterns dances along the water. No I listen, I listen to nothing. The only sounds are those of the animals in the wild. I hear the cricket, I hear the birds of night, I hear the frogs. Off in the distance I see a line of trees. So dense I could never hope to see beyond them. Like a wall built by nature so we knew not to leave our islands.