The mind is the doorstop to dreams, thought is the force on the door. how hard is your drive to your dreams? all you must do is open the door...
send a pulse down my spine, creep your fingers to your heart, send your soul away and feel the embrace of cold, living outside your mind but within your thoughts, finding yourself spinning on your back against the asphault, scinging the edges of a socioty's mold deep cracks in the crags of misshapen figures brought forth by a worn sense of what is or isnt true, letters falling from the branches of trees, leaves of the men's pen writ in the spoils of the ages, forces churning beyond the ability of imagining....Imagination in itself glazing the corners of thought redefining the meanings, the ways, the moments, how and where we live, why we do it, spinning a web of glories and fires around a spindle of irregular interests and personal conquests, forcing a pen to not but compose lore but capture the true aspect of and individuals sole being, then defining their moral, their sins, their miracles...what more is paper unless you make something of it...what more is a life if that life chooses to become nothing...what more is a poem than the way the reader views it, can you not but delve into the understanding of another, no. bring not the thoughts of others but the interest of a new being to understand, not agree, but understand anothers point, being not a scar of the tale of humanity but, being remembered for the things you did, and put it to use, becoming an intellect of a rare modicum, a flesh of rotting speculations mutates and forms difference in ideas, left only to create the essence of a being, what to define this as is merely a speculation... take life as it is, take the explanation above as a definitive of a mortal.