In ancient cultures, it was perceived that having a small ***** was an endearing quality. You weren't as 'testosterony' and could think with your 'smart' head.

You didn't rely on raw physical 'manliness' to show your worth.

Michelango's David was definitely not hung.

It's hard to resist the urge to exercise arrogance when your self esteem hangs in the balance.

By the end of this month, I will have made 733 dollars, meaning I will have to borrow another 400 to pay for this month's student loan payment and keep my credit card from going over the max again.

My room mates covered my share of the rent this month until I could pay them back yesterday because I only work 20 hours a week.

On paper I am a tax on the community I am a part of. Not a contributor.

As far as I can see, the only thing I have of value these days are my words; so please forgive me if I over sell my ability to use them. In comparison to the rest of the world, the significance of my piece is very little.

Relative to me, however, my piece is my world.

And I am not alone in this mentality.

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I am a poet.

And I really need you to know it.

He doesn't hate the world, he just likes to talk to it like he does

it makes him feel big.

I've always struggled with an uncomfortable feeling around wasps and other biting/ stinging insects.

I got stung on a beach once as a small child for no ******* reason.

But this afternoon, I was standing on my porch wondering about fears and how they make us less than who we are when we're fearless and do our thang like a boss.

I've always been a boss.

Just not when I'm afraid.

And I looked down at my hand, and saw a wasp sitting on it. I reacted slowly to it as I had just finished puffing a spliff.

The extra second to register what it was afforded me an extra second to notice I wasn't afraid.

I have no idea how long it had been there.

I wasn't afraid when I wasn't aware of it, and it did me no harm. I continued to watch it **** around and breathe on my hand, and it continued to do me no harm

That's when I realized that a fear based on past experience should be seen as a thing of the past.

They say broken hearts write the best poetry but I beg to differ.

Hearts that know what they want write the best poetry.

It just so happens that a heart remembers what it truly wants when it's broken.



It wants to be swell again.

Hanging from this tree branch with one arm.
At a height high enough that would hurt a fair bit if I let go.

I'm struck by the weight of my own body.

I'm so tangible... so breakable...

small and weak,
yet tall and strong. I can be anything.

If I weren't here, this tree still would be. Magnificent as nature itself. Yet it's glad I came by this afternoon, this I know.

I stare at the bark, and it seems to pry past my eyes and into my soul, saying "yes, this is real."

I am real.

And I'm so pleased to be so.

I found myself sleeping on your side of the bed last night.

It made me wonder because the bed isn't yours. As far as worldly possessions go, I'm not even within my right to call it "mine".

it just is.

But you're still associated with an integral part of my life and it ***** cuddling with a sleeping bag.