I’ve noticed that people that have a lot of sources of happiness don’t do drugs often.

I’ve also noticed that people who do drugs often don’t have a lot of sources of happiness.

I just want to drill you with compliments.

I want to see you smile and live your life in honest bliss.

I need you.

I need you to keep going.

I need you to breathe slow and remember peace in the commotion.

I need for you to keep hoping.

I need you to see through the smoke.

Through the mirrors and ghosts into the clearing.

We’re home, but stuck at home with the fear of unknown things.

We’re stuck opposed not hearing the tones the seer has composed like i’m here on my own, no steering just floating.

There's no feeling emotions , no tears or joy just years of noise buzzing here in the void.

Here in the Abyss where the Aether's an Ocean and the Words you see make up the sea that we float in.

These words that once i would speak and she easily quoted.

Words that she keeps like she creeps on a poet, stealing each sonnet like she sweeps through the cosmos hands reaching deep in your pockets, into your coffers and where you sleep in your coffins.

She bleeds you of weakness of greed and of softness.

It seems i could see the difference between us then lost it once i could see what it wasn’t yet it all seems to cost us is a moment of speech filled with honesty so we could see that it’s not a dream.

She is a .45 special spinning in the palm of my hand.

She draws herself close about your head like a crown of thorns.

Extends a soft hand in kindness.

One to the Temple.

Then she offers you a choice between the two roads ahead.

One to the Temple

or

One to the Temple.

She whispers of ruin.

Quick!

Run!

She Screams.

Where?

I keep quiet a lot of the time because I wonder what it is to speak.

Ahh..

..to speak.

To Speak!

To Speak?

..oh.

& how to speak!?

& what would I say.

What would i speak for even?

& why?

How much of what's in me deserves to be mixed with what's in you?

With what's in the world?

Do I value it yet?

If not should it come out my mouth?

Perhaps not.

Yet some times it might still.

When if in speaking I am heard and you value it more than I did then it seem rather, that I am misheard.

Then, it seems to become a problem.

Then in speaking I am not truly heard for what I feel or think has not been said yet though still I have spoken.

Then it becomes apparent that what I have said should not have been said.

What I feel and think has not be heard all that has been heard is what I have said.

So, I am at a loss, grasping at how to speak.

For if I have not yet decided on how to live then how could I know how to speak?

If I have not yet decided on how to be or how to move through the world then how could I know how to speak?

So you see to speak has always been a problem.

To speak..

..and how to speak.

Then to learn about languages, even more!

To know, that with these other words come another way of mind.

So then to speak on what I feel, this might not be easier said in my native tongue than it would be in another's.

Again, so how would I know how to speak if I were to know something like this?

Then it would seem that I'd not yet know even how to think and in feeling I may be mature but with thinking or in speaking I would come across an infant in the conveying of these emotions.

It makes me wonder again how to speak at all or why even.

Should I speak at all?

But to not speak would be worse.

All that remains without speech is confusion and the actions that come from this confusion that arises from our lack of speech.

&

Then to be heard!

How to be heard?

How could you be heard if you didn't know how to speak or to speak, how would you ever be heard?

Yet if i were talking that whole time aiming to be heard yet not knowing how to speak?

Well, then i wouldn't be heard.

Though i would still be making noise!

Loud specific noise that causes loud specific reactions.

Like Poseidon some how swimming against the waves in a storm, thrashing against himself.

I would be lost in the knowing of that noise.

That i did this.

That this is me echoing and flowing around me.

It would be like walking through the corridor's of a house that is made up of the echoes of your own words..

.. you can hear them in the walls, in the creaky floor boards.

This is it, this is me.

Then how to speak becomes more of a problem.

Knowing like god knows, that this world is made up of the word.

You understand the depth of what It is to speak now, from this knowing.

How important it is to speak.

To know how to speak, to know TO speak..

..and when to speak.

Fires

Huddled stone to melt copper and tin, iron and more.

They stand like houses.

They work inside as a Forge.

We are like, to this.

Like to metals in fire and stone.

Companionship and love, bonding and connection.

These are our small fires within.

We are thrust into and pulled out of many.

Beaten by life and dumped into a cold bucket.

But these fires though they make us soft for a moment only add to the depth of our strengths.

Though we are not swords.

Still.

These warm huddled moments.

These times of togetherness.

The moments we share.

These are our fires.

Without these i fear we may become brittle over enough time.

Too hard and unyielding to cope, leading us to break.

To shatter.

I made another tumblr just for my poetry.

Ah..

To give life to a thousand Sun's.

That each one would give life to a thousand more and we would fill the dark depths of the night sky with our lights.

This fire, this light would reign as legion amongst the heavens.

Then our strength would be law against the emptiness and the unforgiving cold.

Team Villiarmo or die puto.

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