Red Balloon.

The wind pushed
me and my body
asking for a reaction,
that I refused.
Though, mind seemed to go
there, in defiance.
What if I was moved,
taken in by the wind?
The exhale of this world,
this world I claw and craw
to take hold of,
to hold on to,
finally directing me.
Am I strong
for saying, "No.''
Am I foolish
for doing what I know,
for attaching value to that?
I remember the child
that stood and watched,
as it traveled.
Watching the sun pierce
that lucid, red balloon,
I grew envious.
What it must be like to go
Blind and full of vision.

My hate.

My hate is
Mine,
My personal,
Negative reflections of
Me.
We are
Projectors
Of me.
All of us
Variating this body,
Where I
Fester in insecurity
And it belongs
To you,
All of you.
A cycle of incivility,
I am casting
The stones of my
Discontent
And feeling
The bruises of yours.

Value

I'm inside with it
all, the bleeding
results of my insatiable mind.
I can't bare
the thought of standing
dry, abandoned
in the force of a world
identical to myself.
Is this greed?
No. But can they
understand the difference
between my needs
and the wantings of the market place.
Would any man give
thought to my soul
as it struggles, as it sways
upon the auction block?
I could sell,
give away my projections,
let them decide the cost.
But, when it ends,
when the bidding storm dissipates,
as I stand in the raw
what will be my value?