the person in the mirror is an old, old friend of mine
you would think that she would be my enemy
judging on my history
but time has a way of redefining judgement
experience has a way of re-evaluating importance
grace has a way of breaking down pride

the person in the mirror is constantly evolving
sometimes so much so that she does not align with me
she will be my neighbor
she will be my mother
she will be a perfect stranger
she will be everything else in between

the person in the mirror sees the finish line
before i have tied my laces
before i have found the beginning
she will coach me in a way
that no other can perceive
before i even know it
we will both be in a place no one can see

the person in the mirror is an old, old friend of mine
she used to be my critic
she used to be my opponent
but love has a way of healing the deepest childhood wounds
peace has a way of emerging after endurance

down this rage. It’s growing
for days. It started small as a ping-pong
ball. Then climbed the size of
a watermelon. I smashed it with

a bat. But it grew back. The seeds
rooted in the dirt. Now my rage is big
as the earth. I swallowed the sun and breathed

out fire. I burned man, every coward
and liar. My rage became rampant as a forest
in flames.  A path of collapse none
can tame. My red rage covers the sky

in a ****** blanket of sighs. Now it's pelting
execration. And stands in formation of
every line I pen. It's a blend of bat **** and
cockroaches hidden in nostrils, and dancing
in gritted teeth. A smoldering ember underneath.

I look at the pictures of us, and it's like looking at a paper graveyard.
The smiles, so frozen in time, so distant and temporary.

My memories are of cut flowers,
laid at the altar of us.
Bright and then fading, losing petals
like prayers scattered over fresh earth.

Your eyes have lost their shine in my mind.
I can barely taste you on my tongue.
My mouth starves at your garden.
As time slips away, the pain becomes like
an old rusty machine
on an abandoned farm.

We disintegrate and decompose.
A gentle thundering rain swallows us
in hazy downpouring sheets.
But a new life is carried
through turbulent groundwater currents.
A sprout, seeking root on fertile ground,
where fleeting moments of new joy
will be captured again and again.

And through the death of the old,
we embrace the birth of the new.

Sometimes
when the night long,
and sleep short...
Old ghosts gather
close around me.
Of them all
the one
I always look for
among old lovers
and lost friends,
are your
welcoming eyes.

do you think that you are beautiful?
the question filled the room
the question mark,
so stark
digging into my ribs
like a phantom pain
that everybody else calls hypochondria
that i call invalidation

i grab the question mark
with a fierce fist of indignation
i change the words around
an attempt at self love promotion
i throw the question mark away
pull out my bold persona

YOU DO THINK THAT YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!
EXCLAMATION POINT!
CAPITAL LETTERS!
BOLD!

do not question my beauty.
do not question my existence.
do not fill the space that i dare to embrace
with a question mark
when you could be making magic
when you could be dancing in the light of your own healing

yes,
i do think that i am beautiful
you shouldn't
have
to
ask

everyone knows Pain
she visits every one of us
wearing different disguises
different costumes
so we do not even realise
that Pain has become our friend
until we are sobbing on the floor of the staff room
until we are putting up barriers so we never let such humanity show
until we are cutting off lovers, family, friends
until our own raw reflection is too much confrontation to handle

every one knows Pain
she presents us with a bottle and promises a cure
she hands us a blade and offers an escape
she gives us diet pills and leads the way to "True Beauty"

Pain looks so different every time
making it near impossible to spot her pretty lies
if you look closely though,
she has a pattern of isolation
never, will she promote Unity
Connection,
Hope,
Community
always, she will order you to operate alone
forever drawing upon inner self-centeredness
never, will she guide you to Truth

every one knows Pain
she is a clever friend to all
always lurking in the background
waiting, on standby
ready to become our transportation to the morgue

we have a closer friend called Healing
stored in a back shelf
that we sometimes forget
she also comes in many forms
she is a song
she is a hug
she is a pen

A short sentence that rarely holds truth
Used the most by people who mean it the least
Pinky fingers locked with hesitation
Do white lies remain harmless when I harm myself
Words dripping with denial
Thoughts go from yells to whispers
I cannot seem to love myself enough
To begin to love you back
My brain is a cage trapping all answers to your question
Three words that send my body into a frenzy of panic
“Are you okay”

Love is not blind,
but he who did not see your worth.

I was standing in the valley
By a mountain
The grass was so green
Like emeralds
The air was clean and fresh
Wildflowers were everywhere
All colors and sizes
Like a Monet painting
I had been waiting
For a long time
It seemed like forever
Then I looked up
And I saw
Slowly walking
A man
It was you
My heart jumped
I started trembling
I couldn’t believe it
After so long
After so many prayers
You were here
Standing in front of me
I reached out my hand
You smiled and took it
We started walking
Disappearing
Into the green valley