It felt just right
Your hand intertwined
In my fingers, and hair
Lazing on my shoulders
But I couldn’t say the right words
To keep our hearts together
Beating as one
And arms holding one another
Aching for each other’s touch
I could have tried a little harder
To be someone else
But this is who I am
An emotional wreckage looking for some solace
If in those moments of my angry impulses
You cannot accept me
Do not be ashamed because I am yet to accept myself
For who I am along with all the mistakes that come along
With it
No one knows what tomorrow brings
I hope that I am a different person every breaking day
But when the sun comes out and in my vast sea of regrets
I’ll find some peace knowing that with you
I had found some acceptance for who I was
Some gratitude for who I’ve become
You taught me to love and to live life
I found the essence of everything in nature
It continued to stir my soul and reinvigorate that lost zeal
That I thought would never come back, suddenly it all
Came back to me

In a tussle of the wind
The trees shed their leaves
This fall
No one to tousle their flowers

I'm darker than the deepest sea
Lighter than the shallow breeze

A whisper in the south
Called the girl in
The sun set on the frothing waters
And a little innocence went a long way

The storm had just arrived
As the kettle came to the boil
I could've played the flute
In a drunken haze

I spent my days
Exploring the world

The magical wind
Had cast its spell
But your hair was in your face
And your eyes would peer through

As soon as the clouds broke
And the lightning took the silence away

I always thought the sky could be blue
In those paintings, the clouds were out of tune
They were grey like my heart
They were white at times

The blue sky never knew
When the rain would pour
Or if the sun was to come out
If the people were there

Within the nook of a dell,
a good distance
from obloquy
and inhibition,
floating on water,
listening to birdsong
descend down
the stream
of a musical scale.
Don’t need to believe
or even consent to
any critique,
any look-see,
you are free and light
on the surface,
buoyant and supple
beneath.

Languid movements,
reminiscent
of a weir,
cascade
and trickle,
springing forth
to orchestrate an overture.
This feeling is
beatific,
euphoric,
the moment one of
nonpareil,
bijou,
objet d’art,
and these transports
are yours only
to involuntarily
succumb to and relive:

Rhythmic waves
quivering
upon your shore,
as your limbs and spine camber.
It’s no wonder
you often lift
your voice in song.