Sometimes you meet people on the street,
and almost like a fairy tale,
they stay in your life forever.

Others slide through and receive only a passing glance from you.

Then there are those who impact your life in unbelievable ways,
but only for a short time.
Then they are gone so fast that they leave an afterimage on your soul,
like the blinding flash of a camera,
​reminding you of them forever.

The earth is full of surprises.
Every time you explore it,
a new discovery seems to appear from nowhere.
The view from the top of a hike,
where the landscape is stretched before you like a map.
The music of birds surrounding you in a secluded grove.
The feeling that you have found something barely anyone else has seen.
The accomplishment of going past your limits,
to find a hidden treasure.

I sit here.
Unmoving.
But the blood rushes through my veins.
My heart pounds.
Static clogs my ears.
But inside,
bedlam.
Thoughts rushing in a tirade,
never halting to collect themselves for even a moment.
Instead, they sprint, swirling together in a maelstrom,
sense lost in the hurricane of emotions and snippets of thought.

I look peaceful.
My eyes are closed.
Hiding the chaos inside.

​

Suspended in the air,
two sunlit blossoms wave gently above dark earth.

I hope they enjoy each others' company,
because a pairing like that could become stale very quickly,
when you glimpse the same petals out of the corner of your eye,
feel the same light tickle from their leaves as the wind rocks you.
You never get their scent out of your nose, day after day.

But, what if one was separated?
Either devoured by some insect,
or instead abandoned by the stable stem it had always relied upon?
Left to float helplessly on the breeze as it fades into shadow far below.

I feel like there may be a short freeing moment for the remaining blossom.
A welcomed solitude that hadn't been experienced before now,
as they bask in their singularity.

But before long,
I think they'd begin looking back upon their fallen friend with longing.
Remembering what it felt like to be part of a pair,
with constant companionship,
and a listening ear only a moment away.

Their everyday scent would then be treated as precious perfume,
and the soft touch of their petals,
as a caress to be savored and treasured.

That's always what happens after a fall.
You learn to truly yearn for something,
only after it's been taken away,
and you're left alone to muse upon it.

You sink into the aftermath.
And your memories take the place of the lost,
only a pale comparison of the original.

I love listening to the cadence of voices.
The dips and spikes of phrases,
how the way we speak can create music.

Even if I have no idea what is being said,
and the words rush by in streams unfamiliar,
that doesn't change my appreciation for the way it flows through my mind,
gleaming in the sunlight,
skipping gleefully over smooth stones,
or crashing wrathfully through the air and upon the earth below.

With language,
there is so much more beauty than the simple definitions of words.
I dive headfirst into the unending rush of them,
and glean what I can from their cryptic presence,
as they carry my mind away to places unseen,
with stories untold as my guides.

Sometimes exhaustion,
beats my imagination,
and I write haiku.

I think I've imagined what living dolls would walk like.
Not the high-tech robotic ones who are made to walk on command,
but an inanimate object who was handed consciousness,
maybe a soul,
and told to become a living thing,
with no other guidance or direction.

I imagine they'd fall over a lot in the beginning.
After all, we did the same when we learned to walk.
But once they figured out the mechanics of moving by their own power,
I imagine it would look jerky and stiff,
with each movement separate and concentrated.
Forced, where ours are effortlessly coordinated.
The sound of joints popping in and out of place would accompany them,
along with the scuff of their feet upon the ground.

Without fleshy muscles or tendons,
the mechanics would be rough and painful,
as balls and sockets are wrenched apart and jammed back together in sequence,
grinding plastic or wooden limbs together for the sake of movement.

I think observing it in real life would be awful.
It would either make my own body ache in sympathy,
or set off a cruel beating through my chest,
as its painted-on face comes staggering towards me,
its formerly dead eyes locked upon my own.
Moving forward with the single purpose
of asking me the question that is consuming its new mind.
Asking me, what the purpose is to being alive.

Floating weightlessly,
letting the heated liquid sooth my aching muscles,
and massage away the stresses of the day.
If I lay on my back and close my eyes,
I can ignore all the conflicts and hurts I've accrued,
at least for a little while,
​and watch as pretty thoughts and dreams flit across the backs of my eyelids.

I love creating worlds.
I take the one we all know and love and hate,
and twist it to fit my means.

I sprinkle it with creatures unseen,
with intangible pieces of magic that curl around
and through the very blood of the beings living there.

I carefully craft the conflicts that are fit to rip the earth asunder,
ready to send the inhabitants to either their early graves,
or onto adventures that will shatter their understanding of their world and selves.

These are journeys that I primp and ponder,
drawing the curious eyes closer and allowing them only enough information to peak their curiosity,
before throwing them headlong into the story,
keeping them attached and connected,
and making it impossible for them to let it leave their minds for too long.

Thoughts about it keep flashing by in snippets,
curiosity and worry for the characters' safety,
wonder at the upcoming climax.

Once you enter my world,
you will never truly leave it.
I'll make sure of that.

On days like this, the words stick to me,
like chewed bubblegum in long hair.
I yank, but to no avail.
It refuses to yield.
So I sit wordless.
Like a broken
pencil, I
lay there
​mute.