Like mushrooms, we are connected.
It is hard to see where one fungus stops.
And the next one starts.
The complex network of mycelium
Ties us all together at the root.
We grow from the mossy ground,
Unsure if we are a new being
Or just a new extension of the whole.
Regardless, we are each unique.
Distinguishable.
We stand alone as ourselves,
But we grow together as one.
Are we a family?
Or are we different organs of one organism,
Working in tandem, doing our part?
I suppose all these descriptions can coexist together.
We do work together, sharing resources,
Distributing based on need, not want.
We are a family of mushrooms.
Our spores share the same DNA
As they float through the air.
We are one with each other,
But we are also our own selves.

I fell madly in love with you.
Your sweet compliments drew me in.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your soft kisses won me over.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your advice told me to listen.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your discipline made me better.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your harsh words caught me off guard.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your apologies regained my trust.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your bad habits became mine.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your anger made me feel protected.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your disappointment was immeasurable.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your love made me feel crazy.

I fell violently out of love with you.
Your sweet compliments stopped coming.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your kisses slowly faded to pecks.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your advice led me astray.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your discipline left me confused.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your harsh words stung like tears.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your apologies were double-sided.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your bad habits ruined my life.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your anger scared my childlike heart.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your disappointment made me feel even worse.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your love made me feel unloveable.

Dear… you,

Whoever you may have been is lost now.
Like a tide carrying away a clam, your fate was taken from you.
Was it gentle, like a beach wave lapping at a tourist’s toes?
Was it violent, like a riptide carrying a surfer out to sea?

I wonder what kind of pearl might have been hidden in that clamshell.
Was it beautiful, full of shimmering possibility and light?
Was it warped, shaped and formed uniquely to match you?
The world may not have liked the pearl, concealed by two halves of a whole.

But I think I would have. I think that sparkly gem would even be my favorite.  
Made unlike any other, its color, shape, size, weight, and beauty would make it
perfect, perfect for me. I would cherish that pearl, wear it around my neck. Like a medal, it would rest between my *******, shining in unison with my imperfect teeth.

But you are not a pearl. You are not anything. You could have been so much, and I would give all that I’ve done, all that I am, all that I know, to see who you would be.
If only I could… You could be so happy here. I’m sorry that chance was taken from you.
I took that chance away from you. Well, it wasn’t only me; it wasn’t a decision I made.

These are just excuses. I can’t undo what has been done, but please know I am sorry.

With love that was saved just for you,
A Mother Figure but Never a Mother

Drive me to a cheap motel.
Pay for a week, the one after as well.
But what do I do when I can’t save up money?
“We’ll worry about it if it happens, honey.”
Daddy, I’m scared, and Mommy I’m tired.
If you push too hard, I might just expire.
I’m losing time, and I’m losing hope.
So I just tend to dissociate to cope.
I made three new alters in just the last week,
But you don’t listen, don’t know what that means.
I do want to survive, live, be alive,
But I’ll need more help if you want me to survive.
Please love me now, like I needed love then.
If not as a parent, at least as a friend?
Mom, I know you hate me. No, no, it’s true,
But the only person you hate more is you.
And Dad, I don’t lie when I love you I say,
But stand for yourself, not your wife, just one day.
You both have raised me, shaped me, molded me,
But the person you think I am isn’t the person I wanna be.
I’m your son, though I know it’s hard to adjust.
I find it hard to love and harder to trust.
The people who raised me, taught me, bathed me.
When I ask for acceptance, don’t make me say please.
In the end, we all need therapy, I think,
But don’t dismiss the truth I will speak.

My dear one,

May you walk new paths optimistically when you are the Fool.
May you create your universe when you draw the Magician.
May you trust your intuition when you draw the High Priestess.
May you be grounded in family when you draw the Empress.
May you lead with authority when you draw the Emperor.
May you listen and learn when you draw the Hierophant.
May you open your heart to love when you draw the Lovers.
May you speed towards success when you draw the Chariot.
May you see the power you contain when you draw Strength.
May you sit back and reflect when you draw the Hermit.
May you recognize your karmic cycles when you draw the Wheel.
May you balance truth with wisdom when you draw Justice.
May you surrender yourself when you draw the Hanged Man.
May you transition smoothly when you draw Death and Rebirth.
May you balance your energies when you draw Temperance.
May you face your inner demons when you draw the Devil.
May you see the truth clearly when you draw the Tower.
May you wish for a better tomorrow when you draw the Star.
May you see into the depths of yourself when you draw the Moon.
May you ignite with joy and inspiration when you draw the Sun.
May you truly know your motivations when you draw Judgement.
May you be spiritually reborn when you reach the World.

Oh, to be the Fool. Awakening with naivety and positivity.
Oh, to see the Magician. Creating the world he wants to see.
Oh, to meet the High Priestess. Mastering her inner intuition.
Oh, to serve the Empress. Mothering all, including ourselves.
Oh, to serve the Emporer. Leading with our head and heart.
Oh, to study the Hierophant. Learning to change paradigms.
Oh, to kiss the Lovers. Choosing unity and new connections.
Oh, to ride the Chariot. Racing towards success and victory.
Oh, to have Strength. Letting compassion lead our way.
Oh, to rest with the Hermit. Reflecting in peaceful solitude.
Oh, to turn with the Wheel. Cycling up through lessons.
Oh, to face Justice. Balancing truth, wisdom, and karma.
Oh, to speak with the Hanged Man. Surrendering to fate.
Oh, to know Death and Rebirth. Transitioning into change.
Oh, to walk in Temperance. Balancing and blending energy.
Oh, to meet the Devil. Facing our inner demons and shadows.
Oh, to topple the Tower. Felling and rebuilding a sense of self.
Oh, to wish upon the Star. Asking and hoping for our healing.
Oh, to see the Moon. Sinking into murky shadows and dreams.
Oh, to feel the Sun. Radiating exuberance to those around us.
Oh, to face Judgement. Knowing our motives and inner truth.
Oh, to reach the World. Changed into better versions of ourselves.

Dear One… No. Feared One.
I want an apology, an epiphany. Why can’t you see what you’ve done to me?
You say, “I don’t believe.” *****, please! I see it in your walk, the pain in every step.
Do you hear it when I talk, the nights that I have wept? There is pain in every word
because none of them are heard. Past your bleeding lies, but I just use my eyes.
To see past your deception, every little false conception. Should I even mention
How you failed to mention that I am your reflection? Your twisted perception
Paints you as the victim. I am your creation. Why would you create me as I am,
but hate me as I became myself? You hate yourself. You see a mirror in my blue eyes, And your many lies are laid bare. I tear through the ******* to see you.
Alone and afraid of what you have made. Oh, Feared One, you thought I was done?
I have just begun. You’re not the only one who’s words are loaded like a rifle.
Other’s think it’s just a trifle, but your words are a weapon which you’ve chosen
to harm. Sound the alarm, but my f-bomb won’t do as much damage
as your constant brain hemorrhage.

The shadow in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my father.
He stands behind my mother’s chair like an advisor to the queen.
He does not poison her mind or plan treason against her throne.
Her tyranny extends to the invisible shackles on his long-broken mind.

The ghost in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my brother.
Though he has died, he never passed on to the better place he deserves.
His phantom lingers in my mind, trying to reach out and touch this plane.
He can’t feel the tender dew on the soft grass unless he uses my hands.

The witch in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my sister.
Though she has left the inner coven, she is still trapped under her oath.
Her spells of cord-cutting and separation can only do so much against it.
As her mistress sleeps, her work to free herself from her bond does not stop.

The monster in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my mother.
She controls our movements like a puppet on a string, never stopping.
There is no freedom to reign over my or my family’s actions but hers.
Her little marionettes may never break free from the suffering they endure.

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Eating yourself like this
Gnawing at muscle and bone
Just to feel at home

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Cheating yourself like this
Quitting before the game begins
Just to wallow in your sins

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Beating yourself like this
Smashing your head into walls
Just to silence the noise of it all

You need to stop treating yourself like this.
Defeating yourself like this
Betting on a losing dog
Just to hide in the fog

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Deleting yourself like this
Editing your words before you speak
Just to hide the feelings underneath

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Repeating yourself like this
Echoing past excuses and mistakes
Just to avoid the time healing takes

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Completing yourself like this
Assuming this is how your story ends
Just to never make amends

You cause your own downfall
You make yourself doubtful
But you can change your tune
Let the light in and bloom

I love my parents, but they’re out of it.
For high school graduation, they gave me a gift.
A genie, three wishes, you get the gist.
A big responsibility for an eighteen-year-old kid.
What should I wish for? Well, I don’t know!
Beginning of summer, maybe I’ll wish for snow?
First semester of college, but I don’t wanna go.
Maybe I’ll wish to already know.
Know English, Spanish, math, science, and more,
But I’d rather know what’s on the ocean floor.
Why not cure cancer? Because it seems like a chore.
No, what I really want is the one I adore!
Genie, I wish for my perfect girl.
The most beautiful one in the whole world.
Give me a stunner, one that I can twirl.
Genie said wait, don’t give that a whirl.
I am all powerful, all knowing too.
So I know a secret, one about you.
Now don’t deny it, for you know it’s true.
You don’t like girls, or “doing the do”.
You, kid, are gay. Trust me, I’m the genie.
So don’t ask for a taco when you really want ******.

I think this time I’m crying,
Not for the many people I have lost,
but for those I have never had to begin with.
My mother is somehow on both lists,
though I’m sure she doesn’t think so.
My father’s name sits next to hers on the list,
As he always sits next to her. By her side,
And on her side every time, every day.
My grandmother was on the first list
until the day she revealed her soul to me.
Her heart had wrinkles and scars more
gruesome than her youthful smile could hide.

I think this time I’m crying,
Not for the mistakes I’ve made,
But for the memories I didn’t.
My childhood sits at the top of the list,
A foggy blur of grey and white.
My mother’s genuine smile is beside it,
A beautiful sight I think I’ll never see.
My birthdays are each lined up neatly,
Each one a day set aside just for me.
The last thing on the list is scratched out.
Someone I swear I knew once, but don’t
Remember even the song of their name.

It wrapped her head,
covering her auburn hair
in golden yellows and bright blues.

When the wind stole it away,
I raced after it,
hoping to catch up to the breeze.

The red and orange leaves
traced its path as it flew
through the brisk autumn air.

My fingers barely brushed
the fabric, but the current
brought it to the branches overhead.

The air carried it to
a high bough above our heads,
hanging it on a branch with care.

There it hung, beside
the glimmering yellow leaves of
the tree, swaying like one of them.

I reached towards the sky
to retrieve it before the breeze
could lift it away once more.

She caught up with me then,
laughing at our attempts
to rescue her bright yellow scarf.

Looking up at the thin piece of fabric,
I offered to climb the tree
though I didn’t want to.

Her infectious giggles at the
proposed idea graced my ears
like a soft, sweet song.

That music lulled my once-lonely mind
into sleepy peace and serenity
for the rest of my days.

Whisk me away, my love.
To lands of enchantment,
With streams of milk and honey
Flowing past trees as tall as castles.
This lifeless place is nothing like
the realms I wish to visit with you.
I am in need of saving,
Like a damsel in a high tower,
I am trapped in a dull world.

Oh, whisk me away, my love.
To a cottage in the woods,
And let me sew in a rocking chair
While you carve me a small trinket.
As we sit by the fire together,
I will think about the place I am now.
I am in need of saving,
Like a grandmother stumbling.
I am unsteady on my feet.

Please, whisk me away, my love.
To safety and comfort.
A quiet apartment is all I ask,
With warm tea and warmer hugs.
Watch the sunrise with me,
As we watch TV with the dog.
No longer in need of saving,
Like a feral cat with a forever home.
No longer scared for tomorrow.

I watched her become numb.
I watched as nothing reached
past the fog surrounding her mind.

The constant disconnect between her and everything around her scared me.
When she stopped smiling with her eyes, it scared me.
When she became unrecognizable, it scared me.

Her death was a surprise to no one.
But it was a relief to some.
She had been a bright light in so many lives.
Her radiance and color were unlike anyone else.
Watching it dull into gray fog made us feel
like the whole world was losing color.

The funeral was as solemn as her last few months had been.
Not everyone had seen her descent into dullness.
Her dementia-muddled mind was uninterested
in the friends and family who did come to see her.

She lived as a dear friend to me and many others,
but she died a stranger to all. May she rest in color,
and may the people she left behind always remember
her vibrant life.

Make peace with the past or it will consume you.
Like a tiger gnawing on bones, the days of our
ancestors will consume those who cannot lay them
to rest. A one-sided story is a lie of omission.
Happy endings exist on the last page of a book.
They do not expand into reality like an owl
spreading its silent wings. The owl’s life ends
after a new owl’s life begins. There is no true ending.

This is the truth. Make peace with it and find your
future in the past. Time is not a start nor an end.
It is millions of concentric circles that overlap
and repeat in a never-ending artwork. Whether
there is meaning in the artist’s intention is of no
consequence. There is meaning found in every
overlapping line. Meaning can be found at every
point where two circles connect. Without these
interacting shapes, the world would lose purpose.

Oil on canvas can show reality,
but truth will not be found in a realistic painting.
No, truth hides in expressions of
pain, fear, love, awe, and even hatred.
Such strong feelings rapture the viewer and rupture their heart.
Only feeling can convey truth.
To be creative is not to create. It is to feel.
Creativity is not a desire, it is a command
to represent what you feel in what you make.

Successful artists are rarely happy.
The depth of emotion necessary to create
riveting artwork is not often found in joy.
Creating truth requires shadow. It requires darkness.
It requires exploration into the deep and murky waters of the mind.
You do not reach mastery of art until you have achieved mastery of the self.
Success is not fame. Success is reaching and
recreating such truth, such beauty, and such pain
that you have depicted reality in its rawest form.

There is this feeling I’ve never felt.
Given one less card when cards were dealt.
A constant gambling poker game,
Not for money, nor for fame.
This **** was rigged at the start.
The lost feeling was love, joy in my heart.
It’s taught by some mothers but never mine.
I pity the souls who were raised in kind.
I love others; don’t be mistaken.
But it feels like love for myself was taken,
Away by my mother, or maybe God.
Either way, I think it’s rather odd.
The way I was treated. The way I was raised.
The way that, despite that, my mother was praised.
My dad, he’s alright, but I think he should
Stand up for himself, for his own good.
It’s not my fault, but I’m given credit,
For my parents’ emotional deficit.
Regardless of where my poker game started.
I hope I can win, when I’m departed.

Art is a lesson for both its creator and those who admire it.
With every soft brushstroke, carefully selected synonym,
or drawn out note, the artist learns a new way to create,
a new way to evoke emotion from others by ripping it
straight out of their own chest. An artist can do this with
a graceful combination of ease and effort. Those who see
the canvas, read the pages, or listen to the melody, are only
able to grasp the pieces of the pain that are reflected within
their own souls. Inside, we are all fragments of the same
shattered mirror. Its glass once reflected only the face of God,
but now it reflects parts of us. Does it still show God’s visage?

Are we God’s art? Were we a lesson for the all-knowing? Does
even our creator learn from our mistakes, flaws, imperfections?

I’d like to apologize.
Not to you though.
No, I’d like to apologize to myself.
I’m sorry for never being strong enough
to express myself fully or honestly.
I’m sorry for never being brave enough
to stand up to you.
I’m sorry for letting myself suffer
for your comfort for all these years.
I’m sorry for letting you control
my thoughts and actions this whole **** time.
I’m sorry for thinking that I was the perpetrator
instead of the victim.
I’m sorry for thinking I had done anything wrong.
I’m sorry for continuously letting you use me
as a tool to hurt myself.
And above all else.
I’m sorry that it took me twenty years to fully realize
that I don’t owe you a **** thing.

Red is for roses,
Or so they say.
But roses are green too,
At the end of the day.

Why focus on flowers,
Temporary, fragile?
When instead there are thorns,
Durable, agile.

Think about it really,
What is red giving?
For green is still lovely,
Lively and living!

Green holds pine needles,
Oak leaves, and ferns.
Red holds hot fire,
All that does is burns!

Why flare up in moments?
Why flare up at all?
When you can be a constant,
Like a bright green moss wall.

Ever growing, ever changing,
But never erased.
Doesn’t that sound much better
Than a love laid to waste?

It soaks in the power
And warmth from above.
Yes, green is ideal.
The true color of love.

We shared kisses like tools at a workshop.
Pecks were thrown around like nuts and bolts.
A small smooch was passed back and forth
like a screwdriver whenever it was needed.
A large kiss was given like a rotary saw.
It was handed over with caution and care.
The sloppy, makeout kisses sat as unused
As an oddly sized wooden board, one that sat
Along the wall with no purpose or project.
Excuses to not hold hands littered our home
like small screws and nails litter a garage.
Love sat in the back corner of our lives,
And work took its place as our purpose.
Our love dwindled. As did the number
of tools and supplies we used to maintain it.

Are you a spider, traipsing around your web? Like an acrobat,
you swing from fly to fly, trapping them further. Your gossamer silk
Surrounds them, confines them, suffocates them, but you, black widow,
Deliver the killing blow. Your bite is not accompanied by a bark
as you sink your fangs into your victims like a thirsty vampire.
Drain them, empty them, free them of life, dear spider.
For it is your nature, your purpose, and your divine duty to devour.
Oh, spider, I am your devotee, your destitute follower, your dying breath.
I am your last hope of redemption in this dying, this killing, this ending.
Will you be redeemed in the end? Only I, the fly, decide.

Love me tender and soft under the black sky and white moon.
Love me soft and kind on days that I need more help than others.
Love me kind and gentle in ways that I may never repay.
Love me gentle and tender because I have not always been loved.
I have been loved harshly before, and it left scars inside and out.
I have been loved roughly before, and the effects of it still surprise me.
I have been loved wildly before, and I thought I was wild too.
I have been loved aggressively, and I took it as a compliment.
Love me tender and soft because truly I have never been loved.

A wise man has told me things that aren’t true.
A child has told me the secrets of the universe.

Knowledge is not limited to those with privilege and power.
Knowledge is often used to right the wrongs of those in control.
Knowledge is a tool that empowers the wielder with strength.

When wielded for good,
knowledge can be a pen to create.
When wielded for good,
knowledge can be a sword to protect.

When wielded by evil,
knowledge becomes a concealing blindfold.
When wielded by evil,
knowledge becomes a restricting rope.

Knowledge can create and protect freedom, joy, and even life.
Knowledge can be used to conceal and restrict the same things.

Let your true colors shine brightly
as you wear them with pride.
Spread your colors across yourself,
your surroundings, your life!
Let your personality be itself,
regardless of the words of others
or the criticism of those who don’t
love you! You should love you!
In every messy stage, in every
dull moment, and in every bold move,
love yourself! For you are a painting,
my love! As both art and artist,
become your own creation. We are here
to admire the beautiful masterpiece
that the artist intended along with every
glorious mistake and mishap
that made its way into the final piece!
You are a painting, my love.
Create yourself.

Beat me down, break my skin.
Like a glowstick, the party begins.
After I’m broken, bruised, and bleeding.
Celebration starts as I’m on the floor, reeling.
Rolling on the floor with laughter and pain,
I join the party, still ****** and maimed.
Together, we laugh. Alone I cry.
No one sees this pain of mine.
But I find it okay.
Even better this way.
Don’t let them see it.
But let them do it.
Let them hurt me over and over and over again.
Let them hurt me, these monsters, my friends.
They beat me up; they broke what didn’t bend.
And like a used up glowstick, the party, it ends.

A vulture flies over the hospital.
After a meal, we never feel full.
We eat it all, but it’s never enough.
A few weeks in here will make you feel tough.
Stronger than iron, but weaker than will.
Today, you are strong, but wait until
They change your meds, give you the wrong drug.
It’ll leave you angry, like a violent ****.
Wait one more week, wait one more day.
Stay here forever, it’s better that way.
They give you warmth, and food to eat,
All of your meds, a bed to sleep.
But you cannot stay, your time here is done.
Look back at the window, the vulture is gone.

When the line of one idea ends,
does the line divert into new ideas?
From one idea, do a couple, a few,
or several more split into existence?
Does one idea grow into new ideas
like a flower stem dividing into
several stems, letting more blossoms
bloom into beauty and brilliance?

When a circle of an idea starts,
does it overlap with past circles?
Do the overlapping colors and
textures create something new?
When the spark of a new idea is lit,
does it create a flame of creation and
craft that ignites, burning up projects,
releasing plumes of chaos in its wake?

Does your geometry have enough poetry?

I would describe this feeling as pain,
but it doesn’t quite hurt like being burned.
And it doesn’t feel like being completely incinerated either.
No, it’s a dull ache. A deep feeling of loss.
Even my body doesn’t know how to process it.
Not that my body knows how to process most things.
My stomach is bad at digesting dairy and anger .
My ears don’t interpret conversations very well,
And my tongue can’t stand spice.
Spice burns. A pain I can identify, but can’t tolerate.
Heartbreak aches like a black hole. Cold. Empty.
What was once a burning star has been changed,
Rendered into an all-consuming, lifeless nothing.

I mourn the self that was taken from me.
A beautiful woman that I’ll never be.
A stunning reflection that I’ll never see.

Instead, a short man, barely any stubble.
Will be made, created, formed out of her rubble.
In a sense, I’m two people, metaphorically double.

I’m the man that I am, but also her too.
She lies in the organs and ******* that I grew.
She never would have existed if earlier I knew.

She is my body, and he is my mind.
Though sometimes I want to, I can’t leave either behind.
I hope if they were to meet me, they’d say I am kind.

A lingering glance.
I look away.
A subtle flirt.
I don’t notice.

Blatant ignorance.
But not blissful.
Months pass.
They tell me.
I understand.

A lingering glance.
I still look away.
A subtle flirt.
I blush a bit.

New knowledge.
I didn’t see it.
It eats at me.
Guilt for not knowing.
Never questioning.

A lingering glance.
My eyes hold.
A subtle flirt.
A blushing smile.

I think I understand.
They connected with me.
I think I understand.
Why they see me like this.
Why I see them the same.

A lingering glance.
I make a funny face.
A subtle flirt.
I finally flirt back.

Oh, I trust you and I love you and I need you.
I trust you more than I have ever trusted myself.
Your words sing truth against my shattered mind
as they glue pieces back together with glittering gold.
I love you in ways I may never truly understand.
Your smile brings joy to my life while your guidance
brings me back to the path of safety.
I need you to stay to help me.
Your absence felt like a dark cloud on my very existence.
I was lost without you.
Oh, I trust you and I love you and I need you.

A candle sputters, releasing the scent
of cinnamon and apples. Inspiration ignites
within the poet’s mind, like a lit flare.

Passion cooks within her, simmering ideas
like stir fry. Joy sparks from her fingertips
as she types. Her digits blaze across
the keyboard in fiery bursts. Her words
flow out of her like wildfire, consuming
the empty page. A pyre of text appears
on the screen. She fiercely feeds the flame.

Poetry and prose emerge like a phoenix
from the ashes. The warm glow of contentment
surrounds her as she admires her work.

The fires of creation are burning through her.

My mother is a spider.
Carefully crafted webs fill my childhood home.
With great care, she weaves day and night,
trapping her family inside.
We struggle but only doom ourselves further.
I am a fly,
buzzing as I wrap myself in her silken strands.
My sister is a butterfly,
flapping her wings as the webbing pulls off her beautiful scales.
My brothers are bees
who once sought bright flowers and hives of others like them.
My father is a moth,
guided to the web’s shimmering light.
Now, we all lie still, drained of life,
slowly being consumed by the weaver.

Brave Hero,
You wish to save the world?
With your aspirations, you can run for miles
With your dreams, you can burn through metal.
With your hopes, you can destroy even mountains.

But, Brave Hero!
You must learn your lesson!
Running is only avoidance.
Burning is only rage.
Destroying is only vengeance

Oh, Brave Hero!
You must know these three truths!
Know them in your body.
Know them in your mind.
Know them even in your soul.

Brave Hero,
It's okay if you only save one person.
It’s okay if that person is you.
It’s okay.

Some people fall deeply in love,
With ****** touches that evoke pleasure.
I have not fallen deeply in love with you.
No. I fell softly. Like a fallen angel,
I am coaxed to the ground by soft wings.
These wings do not consist of feathers,
but instead sweet words and kisses.
I hope you fall slowly like I do, lover.
As the wind whispers sweet nothings,
Do you gently glide through the sky?
I pray to the god that merged our paths.
In these prayers, I beg for eternity.
An eternity descending with you.

She hangs above, not upside down.
Waiting for her turn, never wearing a frown.
She is a patient woman, wearing a man’s face.
She cannot run, she walks at her own pace.
Who is she? This dark, hidden lady?
She is so bright, when she isn’t shady.
The Moon, oh, the Moon!
Who’s lover comes soon.
Her lover, the sun, sits so high in the sky.
On opposite sides from her sweetheart at night.
But every once in a while, they meet up to kiss,
Covering the world in a gloomy, dark eclipse.

Twenty-five cents.
To most, this insignificant amount of money is spent with little worry or care.
Twenty-five cents.
To me, it’s all I have. I worry I’ll die with a quarter to my name.
I care about the number I see on my phone screen as I check my bank account.
Twenty-five cents.
A trivial coin given to a child to buy a trivial toy.
Twenty-five ******* cents.
A pang in my gut as I see the history of every purchase,
every dollar spent, every card swiped.
Twenty-five cents.
It’s all that remains.

Despite the night’s serenity,
calm is far from what I feel.
There is only a slight breeze
as the storm inside rages on.

A year has passed since it
happened. Beginning and
ending all in one fell swoop.
Even now I don’t know the…  

Truth is a feeling, an under-
standing that seeps into your
being, that brings peace.
Or so I thought.

This truth only brings a storm,
a hurricane whipping around
my mind as I want to scream.
Truth does not always bring
peace. Sometimes it brings pain.

Have you any fear, sweet hummingbird?
When your wings flap in less than a heartbeat’s time,
Do you fear a time when they will no longer help you soar?
Through the trees, you fly, seeking sweet nectar.
Do you fear the day the flowers die, and the nectar runs out?
Or are you too simple? Or maybe are you too pure?
Are you untouched by such a trivial, yet complex emotion?
Have you any fear, sweet hummingbird?
Or are you a better form of being than me?

I’ll tell you a story, one you’ve forgotten.
About an apple tree with roots that are rotten.
This tree made apples, deformed, not round.
Spoiled and smelling, they fell to the ground.
Near to the tree, they seemed far from useful.
No creature would eat them to make themselves full.
But these apple seeds were untouched, unspoiled.
By removing the rot, in water that boiled,
The farmer could purify these seeds,
Use them for his needs,
Even though they were rotten.
Don’t let this story be forgotten.

The day they lower me into the dirt,
I want to be remembered by my work.
One day when I am six feet under,
I want my treasures torn asunder.
I won’t need riches, wealth, or money.
After all, it’s kinda funny.
They won’t follow me to hell.
I want to be remembered well.
May my art lead others to glee.
May my work make others free.
After all, what’s the point, if it all ends with me?
Art and creation are for confronting mortality.

Strength is not a raging river or a roaring tiger.
Strength is bravery in small, significant things.
Even the smallest things can be significant.
Importance is not decided by money or popularity.
It is chosen by value, meaning, and purpose.
We are not brought into this world only to consume.
We are given the strength to create and choose.
Choose strength every time you are given a choice.
The hardest decisions are the most important, and
Great heights are best seen from your lowest point.