I am not made of the strongest of steel,
I was not created by copper, nor diamond, titanium, or zinc.
Forged from the vines that now interlace my veins.
Grown from roots that fuel my changing colors.
But I am strong.
Strong like the branches that do not shiver in winters cold.
I am born of the trees, and my roots run deep,
connecting me with the rest of this growing forest.
I am what I am, because of what we all are, because of what we all endure.
Every harsh storm that passes us, every drought that has tested our very being.
Strong because we have to be.
Strong because that is all we know.
But strong enough to know when a gentle breeze comes, to sway in it, to not resist, because it has no means to be our end.
I am born of the trees,
I may not grow to be the tallest of them,
nor will I have the most breathtaking leaves.
But sturdy I will stand, even if misshapen and petite.
And free I will be,
for no one can tell me how to grow.
No ownership can be slapped upon me.
I am wild
I am ever changing.
I am free.

It makes no difference how small or big the soul is, all that matters is that it is a soul

I have no heartbeat.
But rather,
bells that fill my heart's cavity
Playing soft tunes of Jingle Bells while
snowflakes melt and flow in my fireplace veins

Just because she's a supernova,
does not mean she always was.
She was nothing,
a speck of dust on a clover.
Almost nonexistent.
She's been disturbed and unstable.
Shattered at her greatest depths.
Morphed into something unfamiliar to herself.
Now seemingly perfect.
And still, her pandemonium is far from over.
Sooner or later she will collapse and cave in.
And then nothing.
Not even a remnant of her grand beauty.
A black hole will fill the spaces.
With only faint memories that she ever existed.

When I think of the future,
I think of you.
Fiercely red, bold against my own neutral tones.
Your chiseled edges,
keep me from pure comfort.
You'll be the black sheep.
The muse to artistic eyes
Oh dear red brick,
be harsh,
be the chaos in my delicate life.

Cut open my palms.
And watch as the stars come pouring out.
They'll glimmer in the moonlight, just like they're shooting across the galaxy as they drip to my feet.
And gather in a puddle beneath me,
just like the Milky-way.
I'll make a wish upon them,
Thimble in hand.
For a land, where age has no meaning,
hearts have no bounds,
and never,
is an awfully long time.