Beauty in Entropy

I've got a question. Why is everybody's baby so beautiful? Let me tell you I'm pretty nervous, heart racing, blood pumping, I feel like I need to puke, but here I am before you as children on the street are dying, the earth is losing its essence and teenage love gets more "complicated". As newborn babies are being fucked, women are forced to eat their own shit, and people made to eat their own flesh. 

Here I am! Standing tall like a man, screaming thoughts that don't even follow the plot I made. Here I am crying, weeping, sorrowful because I can barely see what's next to come. 

Here I am curled up in fear, scared to the point that my hair stands erect. I shake till my mouth start to collect dust from the grinding of my teeth, since I too have my own insecurities. I stray off point as every second moves to a minute and my pencil stops writing.

Here I am! Still angry about every single thing I was wrong by. Be it the tax man comes my hands can't move and my thumb goes stiff. Be it candle wax drips, hot, piercing like a needle, falling upon my tip. Be it you ate all the lion animal crackers and I'm forced to eat a llama.

Here I am as happy as can be as all these fucked up things are happening. There's only so much I can give before I concede and I'm always finding it hard to breathe.

Here I am making you the object of my love, when I know making you such will never be enough for all the love I can give will always be in myself. I love, I forget to add the you for I haven't got a clue as to who you are. All I know is that you're my reflection in the mirror, when I wake up in the morning to fix my barely existent hair. All I know that when I call you'll never answer the phone, I bet you never really cared. 

Because all I know is all I need to know, nothing more, nothing less. We've all been blessed by shapes pointing us in the direction of our real choosing. I'm sick, yes, I'm also dis-eased, but that doesn't mean while I'm speaking none of this is happening. The cannibals, the necrophiles, the pedophiles, and rapists aren't out there. But remember there's only so much I can take that I may no longer be able to take it. So let me ask one of more. Why is everybody's baby so beautiful? When the rest of the world is so fucking ugly? Maybe it's time to sit back, relax and see the beauty in entropy.

I can feel.

I'm shaking,
crying,
hurting,
but I'm happy
at least I'm feeling

I can feel,
what does it mean?
everything I see
finally affects me

I opened it,
felt it,
yet I stand still,
Terrified.

Her

A thought to start off with,

Her eyes created with a little universe in each socket. One second they're as brown as the bark of the acacia tree that produces the DMT which makes me recall past memories. The next they're green, the kind of green you'll see when you're riding a bangka in the tropic islands nearing the shore, where the coral is vibrant and life runs free. As mine eyes, meet hers, each time, a new memory emerges, and another created.

Her face, a soft jawline merging perfectly rounded toward her neck, ears pierced on both sides, cheeks bones soft, and the lashes extending like fingers towards the sun. Physical qualities appealing to many but noticed by a few, her rare beauty like a crystal formed throughout the years grown slowly, yet flawlessly.

Her hair, tied around and tucked into a simply elegant knot, dyed lightly as if slightly touched by the sun. A supplement to her crescent moon smile, her teeth barely showing unless she really feels it. A smile even angels can only dream of, while demons envy such an alluring expression. When let down her hair makes a natural amazon, strength and purity exposed from an otherwise less revealing action.

Her voice, a natural soprano, warm in tone, and spoken at cut time. Addictively sweet like the first time you inhale your soul through the pipe. Her choice of words, so well calculated that timing seems to be something she never had a problem with.

Her passion, like a river flowing into the ocean, a struggle to have a certain amount of freedom internally. At work she'd tie her hair, focus, strong enough to burn through the paper she would write on, only to throw it away shortly after, reminding me that nothing is permanent.

Things I observe as I sit quietly on the floor watching as she rests in front of my eyes, dreaming about things that possibly bother her, fingers twitching and hair still tied. Resting from her graceful night at a gathering for peace, love, unity, and respect.

As a quiet observer, I watch from afar and take note of each quality, and how I relate it to the music played in my head with her voice as the lead. A choir with an added chorus and delay to give a floating effect.

A quiet observer, younger, but able to love more fully than others. I'll keep watching, waiting, until this message is received by it's recipient.

Her.