Their words linger

Stagnant, in the air

Suffocating

Love, trust; gone

In an instant

Leaving a crumbling statue

Of a family; now in ruins

They proclaim

It's Satan's work

Fixable, curable

A poison I refuse.

They say

I am too young,

Naive,

Still figuring things out,

I'll come around,

I'm just confused.

They swear this is true.

But I know better,

I know me.

I know my heart.

I know love.

And it ain't changin'.

They refuse me.

Say it's my choice

And I'm choosin' wrong.

That I ain't no child of theirs.

They raised a good boy

And a faggot ain't no good boy.

Lost for words I stutter

Looking for a rewind button

That doesn't exist

Or glue that can fix this

But I can't deny who I am

No matter how hard I try.

So I watch

It all fall apart

Before I walk away.

Red red roses with velvet petals brought to a lover with fiery burning passion

Orange hues are slightly less fiery... the heat is on its way out and crisp leaves crunch under foot

Yellow is so soft, like warm sunshine or a fuzzy chickadee against your cheek

Green is the scent of cut grass

Blue, the scent of ocean, the taste of salt

Indigo like a deep chill, cold as ice

Violet, oh violet... how to describe thee. I suppose there's no better way than to breathe in the scent of the lovely purple flowers by that name. Inhale a handful of blueberries and then taste them. That is violet.

To feel and smell and taste colors is the very best way to experience them!

High solstice portends the equinox

Tropic of Cancer encircled matchbox

Photosynthesizing oxygen and glucose  

Hapless herbivores grow verbose

We're busy from infrared to ultraviolet

Endangering Gaia inviolate

Snaking our bodies together

melted and warm

thermal oasis

loving words spoken

by my searing flame

I want us to have

a baby together

carbon copy of us

reminder of this

ready to surrender

to biological clock

before it strikes

number too high

but are we willing

to include another

taking time

from each other?

He looks outside

and says yes

but deep inside

he says no

and I remain

unsatisfied

ready to move on

to seek creation.

Jittery, jumpy, butterfly panic

Waiting for other shoe to drop

You weren’t here last night

violated word of honor

no response to your cell

life hanging on thread

alone and without borders

cracks opening around me

yawning abyss threatens

to swallow me whole

my phone rings

needles of fear

frozen and threatened

trembling grasp phone

reject and dismiss

what you tender

other shoe drops

more lies.

Plato was right; justice is a matter of ownership. Aristotle was right; justice is a matter of virtue. Hume was right; justice is a matter of pleasure. Kant was right; justice is a matter of order. However, ownership, virtue, pleasure, and order are outcomes of justice. True justice, the essence of justice, is nourishment. Specifically, nourishment as it pertains to one's needs. This version of justice implies a difference between needs and not-needs. For example, breathing is a need. Alcohol is not a need. Understanding justice practically, then, is a matter of understanding human and sentient needs theoretically.

What I saw was far beyond chilling.

The President removed his head from the rest of his body with his own hands. I realized they were not human hands. They were machine. The President of Earth had just been elected and none of the voters knew he wasn't "he" at all. Why? What was its purpose? Was it benevolent? Malevolent? Neutral? 

Despite the feelings of fear, I had to smile. It all made perfect sense now. Why President Ainson never fabricated the truth; why the President never made a mistake while speaking; why his brilliance was so renowned globally. 

Wow.

Pardon me for being so plain, but plainly speaking, said plainness, painfully, is such by virtue of being default. So you see it isn't my fault for appreciating the essence of this symbolic set's aesthetic aura. Orally I prefer circles and squiggles and curves and spirals but textually, I prefer squares and arrows and lines and more lines. I prefer a good suit and tie to sweatpants and a t-shirt even though I'm hypocritically wearing the latter now.

I signed in to Prose on my laptop today, because some things are difficult to view on my Android browser on my phone.

It's been a long time since I've given this my full attention.

I look at the upper left corner.

It says, Write.

I guided my mouse to the upper left corner. I paused.

Click.

Now an empty screen sits in front of me. It's not as empty as it was before, but there's always more room to fill. No matter how many words are written down, there's still more to write. All the time.

There's still so much more to write.

I feel restless. Unhappy. Empty.

Even though I have so much love in my life, it feels like there's always more room to fill. I'm missing something.

How can you be a hopeful cynic? How can I allow myself to have so much hope when I don't know how to deal with the crash and burn of disappointment? How do I decide to choose happiness?

I could keep focusing on the good.

I don't know how to focus on the good without shoving my negative feelings inside an already full drawer. It's so full, the bottom has collapsed into the drawer below it, and I'm unable to get to the bottom drawer.

I keep telling myself if I could just clean up my drawer-the messy one with jumbled up feelings-I can finally get to the bottom drawer, and see what I've been missing.

Then, I just decide not to. And I continue with my day as a robot whose only directive is to not cry.

YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO CRY.

Only to live. Only to get by. Only to show gratitude. Only to smile, speak positive words, assure people that I'm fine. I just have frequent migraines (which is not completely a lie).

I need to continue to fill the empty space with honest words to myself. Then, maybe I'll share it with the world.