If I could give a voice to anything, would it be the stones of the earth,
with such stories to tell, having seen all on our planet,
yet still young in the universe?
Would I give voice to the stars,
who probably haven't given us a second glance?

Perhaps I'd give voice to the innerworkings of my mind.
Would it overstep itself, and become lost and scared?
The words spoken would be tangled, half ideas, in a language not of earth.
The voice of my mind would offend, and be hurt.
Would I give voice to the wind, who travels to distant lands,
motivates the sea to dance, and speaks in whispers the gossip of the trees?
Would the wind dapple in speaking to us, but never form a full thought,
whisked away by curiosity and freedom?

Perhaps I'd give a voice to something small, a butterfly.
But a butterfly is too enthralled with its short life
to mess around with such silly language,
Perhaps a spider,
who waits on her web.
She contemplates the world,
in her short life is wise and understands its workings.
But perhaps she would beg to rid the world of hummingbirds,
and I'm not sure I could listen to her.

World, do you finally realize this is real?
Beyond your passions, your ups and downs, and everything that will pass,
her death is so very permanent?
Do you finally realize she'll never again walk the earth, even if you force your tears aside?
Have you finally noticed the cost?
Stop, and look at her, head pulled so heavily by gravity, held on as if by a string, a shadow of the strength she once was.
There she is, in your lap, she's twenty-one and she has taken her last breath.
All for your silly ideals and passions.
Did you know to stand for what you believe in could cause more than just your daily heartbreak?

Give me one good reason that an illegal immigrant is a criminal.

I have tried to do research. I have asked people why they think immigration is such a threat. I have tried to find out why native-born people think themselves superior to humans like themselves who live in other countries. I have tried to research what an illegal immigrant has done in their search for a better life that makes them a criminal. I have asked people if they know just how difficult it is for an immigrant to come to America legally. I have asked people why, because their family immigrated here generations ago, they see themselves as having the rights to kick out the people immigrating now. I don’t understand how we can place our well being above other people’s, because we were born into it. I can't understand why we cover our ears when people call for help, and when they finally are able to make it through, we kick them back, claiming we are deaf to what they go through.

I can’t find one ******* reason why we should base human rights on where people are born.

Funny how fragile life is.
How fast it remends,
How cracked and broken it may be,
And how overwhelmingly gorgeous.

Such a great family we are,
Amidst our will to hurt each other.
I simply want to hold hands.
No, really, I do.
Like literally, with the person next to me.

Ok, maybe I'm a lunatic.
But I just want to open their eyes.
Moments pass by, too fast to catch.
We might as well smile.
And silently,
Hold the hand of our friend,
A stranger,
The love of our life,
Our brother.
We are one, we are frozen, we are broken,
And life is a beautiful thing.
It makes me smile,
To see the salty tears run over my rosy cheeks.

The crows cawed out with harsh, sorrowful cries as we drove up.
I fumbled to pull my phone out of my pocket,
and asked my mom to pull over.
She gave me an odd look,
but did so all the same.

It was a true ****** of crows,
like none you have ever seen in your life.
Black on the gray sky,
they swooped,
each feather a silhouette against the shades.

They sat on street wires,
balanced on wobbly tree branches,
and pecked at the ground.
Fifty? A hundred? Two hundred? Three hundred?
Too many to count.

I walked around the sidewalk in awe,
as in waves they would lift from the ground,
soar as one,
before lighting back down,
as if nothing had happened.

The busy cars whirred by on all sides of the small, road-boardered area. What a great welcome to your new home.
Would you have taken it as a bad sign?
Something of that majesty?

Potential is not made when you are a child,
Though, at that age, your elders will search for it.
Potential is made when you pick up a pen,
a pencil, a marker, a paintbrush,
For the first time,
Or for the millionth.

Perfection is nearly caught by a camera,
And never by the hand.
But, if paintings looked like a digital picture,
What would be the point of such expression?
If you are looking to draw with such precision,
Look and find another passion,
another hobby, another profession, another way to vent.
If you are looking to find yourself,
to find peace, to find wisdom, to find enjoyment,
Pick up your hand and take the tool.

The artist's style is found through mistake.
A style, is a lack of perfection,
to show the world through your eyes, to alter it.
What you don't understand,
You will toil over, stress over,
hate yourself over, be frustrated over.

Look away from your mistake for a moment.
What is left, is what is yours.
This will change slowly overtime,
As you become better at both strength
And weakness.
The battle between these two opponents,
Will guide your journey.
The art itself is only a mirror of reflection,
Showing all you have done, your past,
your struggles, your joys, your imperfections, your toils,
This is an artist's style.

Pick up your pen,
Your potential is now.

The time comes,
When we have to say goodbye
To those who brought light to our lives
Smiles to our faces,
And forged jeweled memories in our minds.
The time will come,
When we love our memories of them,
More so than their presence,
And the smiles they give us are few and far between.
It is alright,
To say our goodbyes,
And to part ways,
Cherishing the moments we had
When we were people- hardly recognizable to us now.
We have picked our own paths.
Yet, their light may still guide us,
The light they left behind in us,
Coddled within.