As long as the blue ocean
Expands the horizon,
Engulfs ships, and
Lets fish roam amongst
The swirling tides,
I will always love you.

And as long as the sun
Shines from up above,
Sprinkling joy into
Our lives like the
Sunflower petals
do your hair,
I will always love you.

As long as the red fire
Rages from down below
And the white serenity
Gives a blissful calm
From up ahead,
I will always love you.

As long as the green
From the treetops
Sways in the wind,
And as long as the
Children can play
In the glorious grass,
I will always love you.

As long as the gray
Mountains soar up above,
Waiting to be climbed,
I will always love you.

As long as the scent of
Lavender, purple and sweet,
Fills the air,
In a mist of magnificence,
I will always love you.

As long as the night,
Silent and mysterious,
Lets us rest, and leave
Our worries behind,
If only just for tonight,
I will always love you.

And as long as the
Autumn leaves fall,
Year after year,
Fluttering down
Like a gentle storm,
I will always love you.
Forever, and ever,
I will.

I may be crying
but please do not ask
if I am okay

for I will only burst
like a dam
flooding a town

please do not ask
if I am okay
because you already
know the answer

"Guns don't **** people, people **** people."
If guns don't **** people, then why have over 39,773 people fallen at the hands of a gun?
Over 39,773 bullets have hit our skin, penetrated our insides, for them to never come out with us still breathing.
If guns aren't the problem, and people are, then shouldn't we ban everything people **** with?
Let's ban cars, hammers, knives, water, air, fire, and food.
**** it, let's cut off our own two hands while we're at it.
But here's the problem: I sound ridiculous.
We need cars to travel.
Hammers to build.
Knives to cook.
Water to drink.
Air to breath.
Fire to heat.
Food to eat.
And guns to...
Wait.
We need cars, knives, and food. They have a purpose, a reason.
But guns?
A gun's purpose is to ****.
To do harm.
We don't drive guns, cook with guns, or use guns for fuel.
We use, always have used, and always will use guns for one and only one purpose:
To ****.
To do harm.
To hurt.
So, I don't care if it's the gun or the person doing the killing.
What matters is that someone dies. What matters is that over 39,773 people have died.
39,773 lives lost, never to be seen or heard from again.
What matters is that even one life gone, is a life inexcusably lost. Forever.

To Write.
Verb.
To watch ink stain the yellowed pages.
To create stories,
Narratives,
Other lives.
Other worlds
In which my imagination can flow.
In which my characters can come alive.
In which my creations thrive.
In which my voice, my stories,
Can be seen.
Can be heard.
Can be enjoyed.
Where my art
My purpose
Is.
Where all my anger, my ranting, my pain
Flows onto the page
And just disappears
No longer a problem
No longer a part of me.
The words are
Where my existence lies.
Where Lucas, and Fey, and Katrina, and Stevie, and Jonah and Fei, and Cassie and Savannah, and Lola, and Sarah, and Sidera can
Talk.
Move.
Act.
Dance.
Love.
Where people are capable of happiness, kindness, and joy.
Where nothing bad happens
That can't be solved
In a hundred pages or less.
Were books are created.
Poems come to life.
My anger is turned into
Nothing.
But strokes on a page.
Where I can write.
Be free.
Where the world around me dissipates.
For an hour.
A minute.
A day.
I am nothing
But strokes
On a keyboard.
Words.
On a page.
My fingers and mind racing
Which can go faster?
A race against time.
Who can say more?
Not caring about spelling, or grammar
That can wait.
My voice, mood, words
That is the priority.
The story
Is all that matters.
The story...
A noise.
A click.
A sound.
My train of thought.
My unconscious.
Gone.
A bird.
A dog.
A voice.
Destroyed.
No. Focus.
Turn the page
Keep.
Writing.
Anger. Love. Joy.
A wrath turned into stanzas.
Love is but a chapter.
Joy is but a song.
Who am I?
Who do I want to be?
A writer.
I am a writer
A better writer.
An author.
A poet.
Someone who can turn words into phrases into stories.
Someone who can make a reader's eyes cling to the page.
Their memories, my character's memories
Flowing, colliding, crashing together
Like a powerful stream.
They are like I am
An unconscious being.
The world dissipating to only the story.
Only the words.
The characters
I want to make my characters grow.
I want to make people feel something.
I want to be good. No. Great.
But I'm not great.
I can't stop.
I can't find a conclusion.
My characters, my friends. I want them to live forever. I want their stories to go on. Forever.
I don't want them to grow. I don't want them to leave me.
But they have to. For them to truly live
I have to
Let
Them
Go.
I need to learn how to let them.
They can't be
A Perpetual Existence.
Perpetual Existence.
The day to day phrases.
I remember when I first said that.
I was texting a friend.
I knew it would become a title someday.
We found it.
Time. Thyme.
What would happen if thyme stopped?
It was a ridiculous idea.
But it worked.
It never happened.
The characters were never brought to life.
Still in our heads.
An idea.
That's it.
That's all they'll ever be.
Trapped in thyme.
But it's the little phrases.
The little gems.
That stick with you.
My favorite book, a book with a plethora of gems, is called Everyday.
It is profound. There's a section that talks about how we're all the same. Christians, Jews, Muslims. We all believe in the same religion. It's all one god. We just see him differently. We just see different sides of the story.
Every conversation.
Every line of dialogue is a gem.
A little work of art.
I want that to be my legacy.
Legacy.
No. I didn't write Hamilton.
I am not Shakespeare.
I will not go down as a genius or the founder of a genre.
I will not be a famous poet.
A writer for the New York Times.
Winner of the Nobel Prize.
I don't want to.
I want to be known for me.
My conversations.
Everyday dialogue.
What I said to my friends, my family.
The gems.
My dad once told me that I was one of the best writers he knew.
I'm a writer. A dreamer. A speaker.
To Write.
Is to be me.