i spoke a single word. Maybe he didn't want that. Maybe just a nod would have sufficed. Perhaps not even a nod. Just a shrug. Or a blink. Perhaps i should have just turned away.

and i could run and run and run and still not get anywhere.

i'm finding it difficult to discover a happy medium.

It seems as though the Thinkers are never content; they will think themselves to death. They look around them and realize no matter what they say or do, society will always be corrupt. They know true happiness is rarer than a rose in winter. Their senses are highly elevated, but they have nothing to feel. The Thinkers exist and feel nothing or too much. They have a higher understanding, but can never be truly happy. "Does anyone realize life as they live it? Every second? The saints and poets, maybe they do, some."

Then there are those who actually live. They go along with everything, they question nothing. And they are the satisfied. The content with the material things they have received. They love, they receive love. They live a mutual life with others. They do not stand alone. They are just happy, no questions asked.

So must you have understanding and be miserable all at once? Or sacrifice thought and reason and emotion for a happy life? Does any of this make sense? The more i think, the less content i become.

Its dark out. Or i'm just imagining it is.

THE ARTIST
(Frieda Kahlo)

Flowing fabric of every shade
enveloping dark crippled legs;
heavily jeweled fingers and
long beaded hair.

Loud clatter of metal and hiss of moving cloth as
she enters the room
A terribly glorious entrance from
a tortured and radiant woman,
Who attempts to hide and conceal
a frail and slight body.

The heart beating, striving, struggling within is
still stronger than any man’s and
blatantly painted upon canvas
for all the world to witness.

Yet something intimate and colossal is
hidden beneath the obvious pain;
She may try to hide but in
doing so, reveals everything.

MY OBSESSION

Back and forth.
And then again.
Three times it hit me.
Three short quick glances.
Three more chances.
Do we care? i can't tell.
We're enemies, you and i.
We have to be.
i watched too intently.
Perhaps you wanted me to.
There is nothing to say.
"My faith in truth universal is slowly dying."
i am slowly dying.
Another month and a fresh start.
i want to leave so badly.
i don't want to leave.
You.
Won't stay, anyway.
i hate you as i hate the snow.
Lovely to look at.
Bitter to feel.

Rigid chills in my throat.
i belong to a different generation.
A throwback to the fiftes.
Or maybe just a throwback.
i am Marylin Monroe.
i am her death.
i am her addiction.
i am her dress.
Just to go back home.
Just escape before you harm me further.
Just leave.
My door is open.
Up the stairs and to the right.
Why are you
so far away
from me?
You seem to be right across the street.
My obsession is your food.
Your water.
Your shelter.

You love me not.
You never love what you need most.
You must need me.
Terribly.