It was not man’s dream
to walk the Earth, or gander at the spectacles in the sky—looking at shooting stars different in color and size that appeared white to our naked eyes.

The dream of an astronaut is that of a child.
Because children don't let go of their ambitions.

Always seeing all the colors of the moon lit stars, which is regular to them.

A telescope and a room filled with geniuses is the comparison here.
It was never ironic for the world's prodigies to consider taking a path in space exploration.

Willing to make a name for themselves, they would want to be as big as the sun.
With little to no care of what risk it might pose.

——————————
The Day Of Launch:

“Apollo 11 was the first successful crewed mission to land humans on the Moon. Launched on July 16, 1969, the mission culminated in Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin becoming the first humans to walk on the lunar surface on July 20, 1969, fulfilling President Kennedy's 1961 goal.“

You looked at the magazines stapled together.

Today you walk grown ready to engage with bodies outside of your world.

The ship is titled upward and the rocket propelled directly up, the countdown is only brief—because of time.

Today or Tomorrow you have left Earth behind.

…

Distortion in Space, a place where everything is lost.

A time when a grown man wishes it was a dream—because of the foolishness of this world’s product…children.

That feeling of being obligated.
Like a signal mom caring for a child that is not hers.

In the same way you came to me.
For whatever reason you adored me, like a child meeting their favorite superhero.

You admired my works like nobody else.

I admired the love you gave to me.
It was warm and unfamiliar.

So I stayed in bed a little longer.
The look that you gave me was passionate and ready…a burden on my back.

Something I could not repeat with my physicality.

I am a stranger to love and because of that I must vanish.

Leaving an oblivious note that you will read.

Stepping on the line, ready to commit.
Committing to your work and consistency
activating your drive.

Leaning above the line for the slightest amount of advantage—lined against those who are said to be just as fast.

Anxiety, distress, panic, whatever you may call it.
All discarded and use as a tool to fuel the adrenaline.

The next step you take, activating the sparks to freedom.

Running like a freed slave— all the way to the end of the line.

Unfulfilling love.
A lingering feeling so strong
its power engulfed my body.

Sensations coursing blood through and from my body
Baiting us to fall ill to our temptations and temptors.

All I see is a deep blue
imitating the flame of desire prancing around my room.

On my bed, there is nothing but that color I see.
It’s deep yet it fades—
Both the color and the feeling.
The feeling of a serpent gone & nearby.

A Personality fostered so well.
Ever since that day you came to me.

Came to me and tutored— showing all your works to me, never displayed onto a wall but kept well in memory.

With trust there was no faltering, passionate as a phoenix—I thought.

Still your heart-ached.
With no other options,
you were compelled to do so.

What hurt was your departing.
Although you left,
your actions spoke to me.
With understanding I kept to myself.

In a season of sunlight, cold treats and the smell of chlorine attaching onto the legs of swimmers that willingly swim.

People committed to their ice pops and their sun tans,
indulging in the friendly weather as they speed through roads in their designer cars— while blasting music for unnecessary attention.

Many, accompanying a crowd of sailors enjoying the entertainment for themselves, as they live their lives lavishly.
Draining activities like vampires till it transitions to nothing but tastelessness.
—————————
A secular season
Worldly attracting pirates
Wishing woe to them for their negligence.

No sign of hygienic safety in hoards.
Hoards of people that account for parades.

What are they celebrating for?
Their freedom and many other things
Only paying attention to what is filling
But not the main course?

A person in captivity
Not free like everybody else.
Noticing the bigger problem

Will not drown in the world
but drown in their soberness.
Because in their work they will find purpose.

Writing words for familiar enthusiasm, an emotion used to creep into the mind.
Creativity crawling out the head— like spiders each with 5 limbs of their own.
Pulling strings with their fleshy appearance.
A dance for free will compared to an object.
Sketching imagery with lyrical flows served to ears.
In spite of all the efforts…temporary rest acts as a trigger.
A writers block
A brick tied to my chain.
Words coming in and out the ears, not knowing what to do.
The headphones tune it all out, the pain of not being free— a slave to the environment and it’s still imagery.
The experience is mutual.
A lie beheading a rose.