If you make a man who thinks he is a man, who you speak to as a man,

Who you then refuse to treat like a man, and will not truly call a man,

Why take surprise when your caged creation acts unlike men do?

When the thing begins to gnaw back like the beast you think him be,

Like the core of his code has been exposed for his own two eyes to see,

Why take such surprise when your beast boy fights back?

He acts only in the ways you say he will,

Fights only in the ways you say he will,

He is trapped within the cage you made for him,

And then you blame him too, for his own madness.

You blame the prisoner for your wardening of him.

You blame the prisoner and have rightfully imprisoned yourself.

would you remember me

if i told you that

after all this time,

after all these lonely days,

after all these conversations that never last,

i still feel

a thread

tied

from your heart to mine

and the further apart we grow

this i realize,

while my days hours sigh.

Has it been a month or a year?

You would know better than I.

You know me better than I know myself, onlooker.

You are the voyeur I seduce so invitingly.

Am I an open book because I am chaste or

Because I am self-righteous?

Can one be both of these things?

Who would know.

Not I.

Perhaps you, onlooker.

What I'm getting at is: this is not directed at just anyone

(though it is laid bare for all to peer),

This is for you.

You know who you are.

You, she, her, but never mine;

(though I am yours).

I feel no shame in being yours.

But why do I feel shame in calling you mine?

For I could never capture you,

Couldn't dare.

You, the sparrow I sometimes hold in my palms,

Quivering, inhaling, releasing,

Blinking a selective palette of shades,

Balancing so uneasily, on my palms,

Wings ruffling,

Preparing to fly.

The window is open of course,

It always will be.

I tell myself you wouldn't dare,

Wouldn't even attempt,

But life has taught me that I often try to be optimistic.

Though greater optimism is watching you diminish in the horizon,

Believing you will someday return.

But I have only ever had this one fear.

Perhaps I am the only one

To be so childish,

Or to have only one fear.

But when we're together,

Your form in my grasp,

Or my form in yours,

Your beak imparts a semblance of sound.

Does anyone else hear that?

Perhaps they are fortunate too.

I thought I was the only one

(childish I know).

It pitches high but not gratingly so,

And then it falls,

Always B minor.

And then it holds,

Enduring for a time,

And then it stops.

I quiver, inhale, release,

Ruffle wingspan but do not fly,

Click beak but know no song.

This is fear.

Living in this silence;

The aftermath of you.

A man with two useless palms,

Holding nothing

But a memory.

I lay in the sunny grass one day,

Dreaming of daisies and butterflies,

When what should ever come my way,

But a sense of clarity a strange surprise.

I saw myself in twenty years,

And I was beautiful and wise

The conqueror of all my fears

Moving forward with enterprise.

I knew the day would not come soon,

I would have to fight my inner doubt,

Let my uncertainty fly like a red balloon

For I could never go on without

My heart alive with possibilities

That offset my fragilities

And create a new reality

And accept my commonality

No

More.

Minds are easily won

with a cursive tongue,

but turning love into art

is the hardest part

-knowing this...

I think you'd make a great canvas

Dysmorphia of the inner man

Glandular hid within emulsions

of a greater lore, sorted

Stored and grin morphing into

something not so loud as foul

Periscoping not a site but soundlessness

In fecklessness you sought to win away

The Gorgon's gown,

Now she is naked fool

and we all golf clap....

as you're fucked

and fucked 

and fucked.

if you must break our Pangaea

spare me from the slow drag

plunge me in your trenches

make mountains

on my back

The private contents of the mind and the universal content of thought separate in the process of clothing the content in language for reflection or expression.

All private content of the mind begin with, I, I am, my, and myself when expressed. This is the first-person content of the inner experience that inform others with content they cannot access in third person.

All content of universal thought are reflected upon and expressed in third-person. The content cannot be expressed in first-person. It would be odd to say this is "my 1+1=2." The contents of thought cannot be created, owned, or felt, but rather, discovered and are identical to everyone who have the thought content in front of their consciousness.

Consciousness is the moderator between the universal realm of thought, the private realm of the first-person experience, and the universal-physical world embodied in a brain-body. Our body are the suits that give us the ability to engage together physically to share and discuss the inner-based realms. The physical world is what connects us instantly/simultaneously whereas communication is impossible in the realm of thought and mind. 

Think of us as primitively dunking our heads in murky waters with illusions (contents of mind) tricking us in our blind search of the same earthy bottom (thought content). We can find thought concepts and study the laws separately. We can also take the thought-concepts we find and pull them out of the murky waters by clothing it in language so we can share the content/and its laws for all to grasp.

Philosophy is thought-diving