The first time I made a watercolor
was unclear and inconcise
a bleeding between emotions; of colors overlapping
the brush tasted blue and loved it
wanted to spread it across the page
A permanently stained brush always leaves a mark of its first color
bleeding into all others

A circle so soft,
I wept tears of happiness,
Finally I’m home.

Death is to become sunshine,
To break open the self to the world,
In sunwheat gold and peasant hearth,
(The sun is the only empire of peasants)
Every grain of annihilation is still a seed,
And the sunlight carries the sleepless dead,
Their melted voices are warm upon our ears,
The sounds rooted in, but when we do not hear,
No more than the dead worshiping the dead.

The little girl inside of me screams to be important and acknowledged.
Her voice shrill while everyone around stand with plugged ears.
I wanna be heard.
I wanna scream.
I wanna be heard.

We'll put a label
on what we can not define.
What's wrong and what's right?

I've fallen before...
Fell into the coldness of a winter night,
and sunk into the chilling shadows of the moon.
I've tripped on the stutter of my words,
and let myself collapse into gloom.
Yet I've never fallen in love before.
Never melted in the tenderness of ones heart...
Or drowned in the eyes of love.
I've never understood the feeling...
of how it is
to truly fall.