Sunrises forgotten under Sunsets.

Juana,

To me you are citris friuts and coastal views. Somehow I always picture you in Sacremento blowing the sands of time with your artists hands and molding your pain into something beautiful.

Creating beautiful poisons and ambrosia
to the beating of your shepards heart.

..

In truth, I see you as so many things all of them shifting like color-static televisions, lighting up the night with their morse code.

but I can never place you with ice or cruel intentions
you are forever sunshine.

..

I remember when I first read your though-lines it was as though someone had tied my eyes to your fingertips and I am forever addicted. It's just you read life so optimistically even when you are painting pain and deceipt there is something hidden in-between the metaphors that shines ever-brighter in the dark.

and I wish I could think like you.

Because I seem to stutter in the opposite direction plunging into destitude over trivial adolescent matters that only shines through on paper. I suppose its because I never was one to wear my thick-rimmed glasses, I could never see the flower amongst the snowfall.

..

I have trouble wording my insanity because I hate when people read my thoughts and disect what I could possibly paint them as. I am trembling because I realize that my words are retaining water and growing heavier by the second.

I realize that my poems are like splatter-paint. Words connected by telephone wires and tipe-ropes no ones eyes can dessifer. In a way its both excriciating and comforting to know that I am the only one who understands why my thoughts are sepparated as is and the wingspan of my decision process.

But I feel as though your words mirror my unworded confusion that I cannot seem to decode into the english language. That somehow though we are thousands of miles apart and our aura's radiate different sides of the color wheel, we ride the same wave lengths,

and sometimes thats enough.