Life is a two way thing,

You dont always give when you receive and you dont immediately receive when you give.

Well not that kind of two way thing.

Two way in such a way that everything has two sides to it.

There are always two paths and the results you earn trace back to the chosen path.

Either right or wrong,

You choose a good path that leads to a destiny and the bad path also leads to a destiny.

Some lives are purposed to teach others life lesssons and some lives are purposed to learn and teach others how to learn from mistakes.

Always choose the right path,it pays well.

does a spider always know
how to weave the web it weaves
religiously, each morning?
Do birds know what the phrase “to fly” means,
or do they go along with the wind
absent-mindedly mimicking fans?
these hands do the same
circling, reaching,
trying to weave something out of nothing –
I can’t remember
that feeling.
That feeling
when my fingers brush against the palms of your hands
do you know how to trace my lines, always?
you weave my body
softly in the dark
and I want to fly away
unravel me, oh wind
nip away these seams
I can’t see my skin
under all his –
I can’t remember…
tell me, please
why water always knows how
to bend the contour
of its being
against rough memory.
The dreams pooled smooth
in my mind.
He drew out
from the well within me
the sweetest drink
and now I am drowning.
Oh soul
stay close to me
my body has become
a stranger.

They grow too quickly-
a mother says.
-much too quickly for my
back, my arms
my aching feet
they bolt right out the door,
I swear.
They only leave me prints
fingerprints that dance
on the walls of a second-hand
home
trickle down the windows
trickle down the mirrors,
the doors.
I can still hear their restless feet
race through its hallways,
up and down the stairs.
The rooms remember
how they laughed
how they were so small

Once
they could not even open the door.
I swear.

yesterday

Love has never hurt me. As negative and as pessimistic as I can be, I love love. Nothing negative has ever come from being so wholly connected to another person.

Love is indescribable. If it means anything, I still think of Annie every day. Every time I look up at the stars I see her pale skin and her York peppermint patty eyes. I miss her everyday. And I think about what she's doing over in San Diego and if she has enough to eat and if she's safe and if people treat her right. And I want to follow her, but I choose not to because I love her enough to let her go. I know she wouldn't have me now, and I won't force it. But I love her and I want her to be okay. And if she comes to me one day, I will be happy, and if she doesn't, I will still be happy to have loved her and been with her.

I dream with her. About her. And I sing songs about what it was like to be blessed by her. I remember the smell of her hair and how soft her cheeks were when I touched them. I remember holding her in my arms as we looking at children's puzzle books and solving them together. Laughing and smiling so innocently. I'm smiling now, even knowing I almost ended my life days ago. Even knowing I may never see or speak to Annie Wright again. I loved her and that was pure and is pure.

She doesn't have to be your mother
For you to not call her a ***** for not doing what you want.
She doesn't have to be your sister
For you to not call her a ***** for having *** even once.
She doesn't have to be your daughter
For you to expect boys to respect her as a person.
"What if she was your mother/daughter/sister?"
Shouldn't be a valid question.
It shouldn't be a question that makes you stop and think,
"That's true, I need to treat women like I'd treat my female family members."
As though it's given you the epiphany
That even women you don't know are entitled to decency.
And if that question is what made you change your ways,
Get rid of the notion that women can only be treated to
The same amount of basic respect as men
If you can imagine your mother's/sister's/daughter's face staring back.

There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When all artistic, damaged or insomniatic souls
Feel like they're completely alone
Even though we're all awake and feeling the same thing.
12am is still too loud, still too car engines and shouting,
And 6am is too light, too exposing and awake, aware.
It's blackness but for the starlight puncturing holes in the sky,
That's when the magic arises and enchants us.
The way the moon looks at us and begs us to untrouble our weary hearts,
So we do it, and we do it willingly.
She is the most unfaithful lover, and it is beautiful.
How she cherishes each whispered secret so deeply
That it leaves a crater on her being.
How she takes on our pain unflinchingly,
And only needs 28 days to feel whole again.
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When the most trapped souls can feel such freedom.

The thing about spending almost a decade
In social isolation is you forget what's normal.
Imagine my shock when my friend casually pulls me close to her,
A half-hug, friendly embrace.
No context needed, because touches don't always hold
Some deep, meaningful intention.
Yet for the past almost a decade, that's been my reality.
How rare the hugs, how they only ever follow extreme sadness
Or loneliness, the desire for comfort and support.
How I can never reach out to touch someone
Unless I've done it a thousand times before,
And even then, it's an intentional act of love.
Every movement of every muscle is planned in advance,
To minimise the fearful, pounding beats of my heart.
For someone like me, where anxiety floods through all my veins,
I don't know the meaning of the word 'casual'.
And I don't know if I'll ever learn it.