To stop and smell the roses

When I look through reflections
I wonder if they’re always real
if people are replicas and creations
if life is a journey
or only a destination not yet fully revealed

I ponder if others are as insignificant
how return journeys are faster than the first
if significant others are simply a mirror
if first impressions are to be fully trusted
if I really know someone unless I’ve seen them at their worst

A burst of thoughts is usually a nuisance
peace of mind can often be a bore
I think life might be a dream to some
when my neighbors smile at me in the hallways
I wonder if they curse me for the violence of my nighttime snore

I look through hundreds of faces everyday
only to open my eyes to find a select few
they say there are six degrees of separation between humans
I try not to look too closely
strangers are simply a mixture of me and you

If you think long enough
you’ll realize you’ve never stopped thinking
a mind in motion is an explosion of ideas
an endless moment on a spectrum
interrupted only by our need for incessant blinking

In a hundred years
you might be remembered by some
official records aren’t hard to efface
when it’s really said and done
in a thousand years you’ll be remembered by none

Positivity is always an asset
willpower is limited in its scope
don’t worry too much because life is a gift
no matter how lonely we get
we’re never fully alone in all of our dreams and hopes

Point Blank

I stabbed a blank page in my notebook
with the sharpest of ballpoints
the black pen against the white sheet
ripping through the unsuspecting paper
without hesitation or second thought

The pen worked furiously
ripping and cutting
with the little ball point
sufficiently sharp
to penetrate through the thin paper

Slicing and dicing
cutting and thrashing
the paper offered no resistance
the pen grandiose
in its vehement insistence

Calm and collected
looking at the sheet
I confirmed what I always knew
but refused to accept
about the nature of books

Paper is weak
for it can be touched
paper can be shredded
and can be burned
freely demolished at whim

without much effort
my pen was as mighty as the sword
the paper a docile subservient
hauled to the guillotine
for its final chapter

When I was satisfied
with what I had done
I carried the shards to the trash can
looking over to the notebook
realizing there was still much more I could do