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Poem
The ironic characteristics I see hidden in my writings -with amazement -intrigues and 
humanly fascinates me as I see both sides of the story book by page page by book I look 
deeper into each next with curious hope in hopes to have one day a reason

As I think
I find it funny that I could care less in between these lines
But couldn’t have put more care into them

I put so much thought into my writing that it takes no time at all illuminating pages 
showing you thoughts not touched by the conscious mind not poisoned by the media 
second guessed rehearsed manufactured by another mans machine blackening my 
instincts freedoms the peace of mind of a mind at peace

Where am I going round and round with these words I love I hate writing not to escape 
but enter myself by the moon light bright snicker laughing at realization something I 
already knew I know now teaching myself asking myself how? Why? What if?

What if I wrote just for me without any thought of you?

What if I wrote only because I know you think of me?

What if I thought about everything before I wrote it down first?

Well I would be a hypocrite then, wouldn’t I ?

Releasing thought faster than I can think of them giving birth to naturalism and purity 
that was poetically murdered by the writers of society- authors of greed- is the only way 
fashion in which I can portray the ecstasy of expression- emotion- the realness of freedom 
I feel exuberant, happily joyous, magical- as truth drips from my eye onto the page

Evolution is upon is

Our way of communicating is primitive as I drown in what I wish u too breathe in royal 
blue deepest part of the ocean- flying wishing star soaked epiphany relaxes me sitting 
standing where I shouldn’t look where you are and tell me where we stand

In the moment

Only to be in another momentarily
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