These subcategories of articles
That separate theory from fact
Are lines that, really,
Are quite unclearly drawn.
Categories for theory and qualia
That put me under the impression
That everything is based on a conjecture
And it's all in my head.
Qualia is defined as being subject
To your sense perceptions
Brought on by stimulation of phenomena.
Theory is a system of ideas used
To explain something.
But don't we theorize everything,
Based on our qualia?
If we perceive that a rose is red,
And we theorize that this type of rose
Will always be red because we will always see it red,
Does that really make it red?
Is my red your green,
And you only call it red because to you need to call it something?
Or is that just our theory that to be comfortable
Is to fit in and be accepted by everyone?
And that to challenge what is called fact
Is to be rejected?
Where do we draw the line
In these thickly worded and sinking articles?
Is it where we can finally say that
Everything is based on theory that our qualia subjects us to?
If so, am I under the correct theory that
I really am alone?
That my sense perceptions just play tricks on me
So I don't think to hard, or go insane?
Is insanity just theory based on qualia?
Or maybe I should be under the theory
That being a thinker like this
Subjects me to the unpleasant qualia of a perceived headache.

In the tendons and the ridges
In the knuckles under your skin
I find it perfectly treacherous
When it makes me take everything into consideration.
As if simply holding hands is to be raw
That this human impulse is more than just that
And to be intertwined with a person
Is to be connected with their world!
I am reminded of how treacherous it is
To think them,
To think anyone,
Is more than a person.
In the knuckles at the base of every finger
Is where I will find a lack of uniformity
And be reminded that imperfections
Will keep us human.
We are allowed to connect with others
We are allowed to enjoy non-uniformity!
But, if by chance, I get caught up
In the thought of being with someone
Who is anything more than human,
Committing the most treacherous and humanly crime possible
Will bring me right back down to being simply human again.

What do you do?
When you feel stuck,
When you can't go anywhere?
When you're fortunate enough
To be unfortunate enough to have
One of the best opportunities you've had
Come to an end?
Don't all good things come to an end?
Do great things start again?
What happens when I am stationary?
When my friends advance past,
And I return to dust?
When I am left to my thoughts
That have already abandoned my opportunities?
What happens if Studio 7 was my only chance?
What happens when what I decided I want to do
Doesn't work out?
When my reliability becomes my worst enemy?
Most importantly,
Why am I so afraid of the future?

The wind nips at my cheeks
Making them pinker
Than I had intended
Making me look more alive
Than I had hoped
Making me wish I was in the ground
Fake pink lips, fake pink blouse,
Real pale skin
Where everyone, for so long,
Has said I should be.

To live extraordinarily
To let die simply
To live and die on a day
Where you took the simple
And thought it extraordinary
Is one of the most appreciated talents
A person can possess
To live without boundaries
Without fear and hesitance
And to live without regrets
About what you did do
Instead of wishing you did
What you didn't do
Perhaps to live simply
Is to live extraordinary
To die having done what you love
Having loved who you want
Is to have taken the extraordinary
From the simple
And to have lived and died on a day
When you and the people around you
Noticed how many extraordinary things
Could come from something as simple
As life and love.

There are positions I can take
That can please him
Tease him
Or the other way around
But no role is harder
Than playing doctor
And trying to fix your own
Shaken up, stirred ground.
I can be the lustrous one
If thats how he wants me
I only want to mend beauty
From trash
From a mistress into me.
He built bridges with his arms
I will tear down his fortress
This king may have it all
And I'm just afraid to lose it.
I fear I don't know how
To use the sewing machine
That stitches up my fate
My feelings
The trash he made me feel like
Into kingdoms of gold
And ground thats safe to walk on.
I can try to mend myself
Put together broken ends
But I can't claim this battle
When it seems that
He doesn't want me to win.