A person is just

An intricate concoction

Of flower petals and scars

Mixed with wildfires and stars

They have radiance in their eyes

With darkness in their minds

And ice in their hearts

They're endless space

And ocean trenches

The tallest mountains

And the lowest valleys

They're cool lemonade on a warm summers day

And hot cocoa in a cold winters morning

They're waterfalls and deserts

But sandstorms and hurricanes

Ivy on a brick wall

And fleshy ground-cover

They're nothing more

Than fruit in the jungle

And nothing less

Than cacti in the desert

A person is just

An intricate concoction

Of nature

Each person has its own uniqueness

Some may be broken

Some may be fragile

Some may be stronger

Some may be weaker

Some may pretend

While others are open

Some are misunderstood

While others remain passive

It's all about taking all the wisdom from it

With each Experience

Good or Bad

we Learn a lesson or two

With Heartaches

runs tears

Precious,

as Diamonds

With Dissapointments

and Misfortunes

forms Scars

like Tattoos

intricately drawn on our skin

Moments treasured

Imprinted in our memories

These things makes us

Special

Coz' we deal with things

Differently

And it all ends up to being

Stronger and Wiser

These things makes a person

It

Hones us

Shapes us

Into what we are

Or what we could be

I start at your face,

run my fingers along your cheekbones,

down the hollows,

to your lips, from which have echoed

a thousand songs,

and a thousand and one

declarations.

Then your shoulders,

which I have leaned against,

the nape of your neck,

the broad of your chest,

where I have buried myself,

sunken into early morning whispers

and late night haze.

I slide my skin against your river arms,

follow the trickle to your fingers,

which have gestured and pointed

and seen,

and locked with mine

to pull me along.

Your stomach rumbles when you laugh,

I have traced the lines,

drawn circles along your navel,

marveled at how hard

and at the same time,

how soft.

I work my way down your legs,

to your feet,

I wonder what paths have led us here,

what worlds these legs have traversed,

if they've spent more time running

to or from,

and where they're going next.

And then back up as I settle beside you,

watching you bend the silence

with hazel eyes.

Windows to the soul,

I watch them close when you sleep,

and blink open to face the world.

The life you've touched,

reflected in your irises,

written in your fingertips.

I wonder, what horrors have you seen,

what beauty?

And what,

what do you see in me?

We are crafted by the influences around us. As children we quickly discover that to be treated well we must be somewhat pleasant, so we adapt a whole persona around seeking acceptance.

We then become somewhat jaded and less focused upon acceptance once we learn self reliance.

By the time we discover how unpleasant we can be we get lonely perhaps. Then we might make some effort at being more pleasant.

Our entire identity is based on the ways we seek to be understood, in the hopes of being appreciated.

Then if we get tired of repeating the process we might stumble into enlightenment and begin to recognize the folly of it all.

By then we must decide whether to remove ourselves from the worldly struggles that keep us in this perpetual loop, or stay to try and help free the other drones who sicken their hearts with self delusion.

In the end we stay for our own gratification, and secretly hope we are good enough for whatever created us. We look deeper into the mirror and try to reconcile with what we've become.

That's what makes a person.

Sometime ago I met her; Thalassa. She had jet-black hair that was a mirror-image of the night sky, and her eyes were glass windows peering into darkened waters; it was impossible to tell if you were looking into a calm lake or some vast, primal sea.

Her father was long since dead from drink, and her mother gone as well; out somewhere in the world trying to fill the emptiness in her heart by spending nights entwined with lonely, rich men. Thalassa was alone, and though born into nobility, as an orphan she was relegated to exist among the lower class of society.

Even so, her beauty was known even in distant continents, and men came from far lands just to call upon her. Thalassa danced and flirted and kissed the men, but except for an instance or two, she would always leave them unsatisfied and longing. She always found some way to slip away during the night, and it mattered not if the man was Casanova himself or just some trash from the street; if Thalassa wasn’t into you then she was gone, just like dust in the wind.

One day walking though the marketplace, carrying no sin but that of existing, a man grabbed Thalassa by the arm and dragged her into a nearby alley. “Fuck you!” he cried, “Fuck your beauty, fuck your happiness, and fuck your pride!” The sun glinted for a moment in the reflection of a blade drawn from his side, as he sliced a crescent through her face from ear to cheek. Thalassa cried out in agony, but only her soul cared enough to hear.

Even with the scar that marred her beauty, Thalassa still painted, she danced, she sang, she made things of clay, and when people were hurt either in the spirit or the flesh, Thalassa felt a deep grieving for them. She had a habit of being kind to the uglier ones; the so-called handsome men revolted her, “No guts,” she said, “no zap. They are riding on their perfect little cheekbones and well-shaped nostrils. All surface and no insides.” Her mind was different, not practical, and because of this she still attracted most men in droves, and similarly drove the women to envy.

But because of her scar, she could never truly find love; all the men she thought maybe might be the one weren’t. They always ended up being shallow fucks, distraught by a bit of imperfect skin; never seeing the beauty lying beneath. If not, they were psychopaths or sociopaths, and Thalassa wasn’t one to settle for less than she was worth.

Over time Thalassa grew tired, and she began to slowly lower her standards hoping that maybe she would one day find someone that would made her happy. As days turned unto weeks, and weeks turned into years, she started to hate herself. Hate is a painful thing to wake up to every cold morning, and to ameliorate her broken soul all she could could do was drag a petite dagger across her pale skin. Each cut placating the pain in her soul, and each gash a penance for the agony within her heart.

As the cuts grew in tandem with her loneliness, she grew lonelier and more distraught. People stared at Thalassa on the streets. She was a beautiful woman, perhaps more beautiful than ever; even with the numerous holes in her soul.

Then came the night she found me. I was sitting alone at a bar; drowning my sorrows in whiskey and wine. She tapped twice upon my shoulder, and I turned not sure what to expect. Here was beauty incarnate, with hood draped over half of her face, but even so I could see the fire in her eyes, the passion in her being.

“Drink?” I asked. “Sure, why not?” I don’t suppose there was anything unusual in the words we exchanged that night, it was simply in the feeling Thalassa gave. She had chosen me and it was as simple as that. Nopressure. She liked her drinks and had a great number of them. She was not only the most beautiful woman in town but also one of the most beautiful I had ever seen.

I placed my arm about her waist and kissed her once. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked. “Yes, of course, but there’s something else, there’s more that.” She replied, ”People are always accusing me of being pretty. Do you really think I’m pretty?” I laughed, ”Pretty isn’t the word; it hardly does you fair.”

Thalassa reached into her bag. She came out with a long hairpin. Before I could stop her she had run this long hairpin through her nose, sideways, just above the nostrils, straight through the now visible scar that had already traced the outline of her features. I gasped in horror.

She looked at me and laughed, “Now do you think me pretty? What do you think now, huh?” I pulled the hairpin out and held part of my handkerchief over the bleeding.

Several people, including the bartender, had seen it happen. The bartender came down: “Look,” he said to her, “you act up again and you’re out. We don’t need your fucking dramatics here.”

“She’ll be fine.” I said.

“It’s my nose, I can do what I want with it.”

“No,” I said, “it hurts me.”

“You mean it hurts you when I stick myself?”

“Yes, it does,” I sighed.

“All right fine, I won’t do it again. Cheer up.”

She kissed me, grinning through the kiss and holding the handkerchief to her. I don’t know why, but that that moment I felt more alive than I had ever felt in my entire life.

Suddenly, doubt permeated her features as she glared at me in disbelief and screamed, “I’ve been to hell and back, with scars to match, so what the fuck makes you different than any other man I’ve ever tried to give my heart to?”

“Nothing.” I said as I stared into the ocean of her eyes. “Except the fact that I’m here now and they aren’t.”

“Aren’t you put off by the scar stretching from my face to my soul?”

And I simply replied, “No.”

Because I wasn’t.

In the Information Age, many lines that separate artificial and authentic have been blurred. Computers are now capable of many of the same tasks that we humans do, but they have yet to possess the capability to create. They have to be programmed to do something, and the programming is made from a thought that already exists. Computers can't explain why Leonardo Da Vinci was such an artistic genius. Computers can't tell us how Beethoven's pieces are able to move something inside of us. Computers can't read the emotion in the words of Mark Twain. That is only left up to the human.

Humans alone are able to create works of art, things of beauty, pieces that display one's pain and feelings. Sure, we're good at making tools, but other animals can do that too. We may be a compassionate and empathetic species, but other species can be too. No other animal, though, can send out a message that can't be put into words. No other animal can create something that tells a tale that speaks to each individual.

Sex is what makes a person

That's how people are made

Honesty is what makes a person

Even though 99.99 % of us

Lie

Ignorance our guide

Though it is pride we expose

Seeing your only daughter cry

For the first time

Knowing she will have to

Build up from the world she

Knows

Traffic stops

Pulling your gun

Making decisions

When an inmate runs

Instinctive decisions

Not wasting your life

In front of the television

Not shoe shopping

Weight loss pill popping

Or loading up on the ranch dressing

What makes a person

Hell I don't know

People speak of man's greatness

And the invention of the wheel

How man has beaten the odds

And here I am babysitting

The pods