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A path once used
Beaten and abused-
Come travel with us
Down this path of trust.
Every step's a milestone but
Failure comes when you're alone.
Going, going, going, gone
Home disappears with the dawn.
Imagine a world you can make your own!
Just drop the seed and see what's sown!
Keep on going, don't let go-
Live, love, laugh - never say no.
Meet me in the middle, we'll get there fast
Never try to rush, though, let everything last.
Open your eyes, broaden your mind;
Prepare yourself, don't get left behind.
Quiet! Do you hear that sound?
Roots taking hold in the ground.
Stay on your feet - don't let them hold you down.
Take three steps forward, no steps back
Until you reach your goal, no looking back.
Vulnerability is best to deepen your experience.
Wherever you go, collect the deepest sentiments.
Xerox copies won't work for this,
You must ensure utmost pureness.
Zephyrs guide you, zeniths guard you; don't lose faith,
         your heart will guide you.
Collaboration with a high school friend, Johnna Minor.
it's a lot like
when you're
picking berries
all day
and enjoying
the bursts of
**** and
sweet
on your tongue
when
all the while
the dark
red juice
is running
down your
wrists and
quietly soaking
the tips of
your fingers
and they sort
of just silently
adapt
and
accept this
foreign but
familiar
deep
red stain
so set within
the ridges and
ripples
indistinguishable
from the actual
grooves
and
pink of your
real fingerprints
that
you don't
even notice
when it
finally
starts to
fade
away
The windows are open
and the curtains
have been
blowing softly
all day
toward me as if
they are reaching out
for a hug.

The windows are open
and the fan
has been
slowly cooling
the warm autumn
air as it
drifts lazily in
toward me almost
as if
it is looking for
a last embrace.

The windows are open
and the cicadas
are crying
or laughing
or playing
or whatever it is
that a cicada
does
when it sees that
the windows to
a very strange place
are open.

The windows are open
and the goldness
of the sun
makes me sad in
a way that
squeezes my heart
and puts
a sort of
lump
in my throat
and
the coffee I brew
doesn't help
and
the goldness
just saturates
more
and
more
and even more
until
I can't hear
the cicadas
or hear the whisper
of the silky curtain
caressing itself
or the blades
of the fan
trying to slice
the sadness in
the air
before
it
gets
to me.
Another day falling
from the crack of yesterday,

a patch of pearl
burning in the amber west
flaring up heaven
firing me up
in the pains of solitude
and poetry.

Home beckons through a dark way
where hope breathes eternal
as lanterns of moonlit leaves.

I won't mourn the loss
but fill all the void
with paper and ink.
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