Seeds of gradual wisdom,
planted by one's own hand,
grow forth from the consistent,
loving watering, remembered
during the daily routines.
Yet, such insightful gestures
that produce beautiful forests
do not need to be clever
as misguided words designed to deceive;
do not need to be masked
with illustrious, falsely-fabricated photos;
and do not need to be blinded
from decorated lights that attract moths.

Rather than the various tropes
captivated and projected through
self-proclaimed prophets and mentors,
the humble observer endures
each inspiring, spoken lesson
as soft, ever present headaches,
innate as the erratic voice
that frustratingly reminds us
that we are meant to do good.

We all derive from the same paper
that which is forcefully folded,
patiently pressed and
carefully creased.

We all speak through the same pen
that wishes for stencils,
grimacing at unpracticed,
crooked lines.

We all take action with the same scissors,
cutting away from the whole
to create paper people
holding hands.

We all are constructed in the same accordion,
snipping away the background
that falls like snowflakes
to create identity.

We all fear severing the same sections
that conjoin one being to another,
waiting with knives in our hands,
anticipating to cut.

We all fall from the separation,
slicing the connections that bind us,
sacrificing our grip
that suspends us in safety.

We all meet at the bottom
of the same paper shredder,
lost in the screams of its blades,
obsessing ourselves to be
broken pieces of an individual,
but forgetting that we paper people
once all derived from the same paper.

To create an ice sculpture:

Shave too little and none will notice.
Shave too much and it may break.
Wait too long and it will melt.
Wait even longer and you may forget.

Multiple beautiful faces,
immaculate complexions,
and precise, practiced grins.
It's easy to understand
why it makes me thirsty;
they invented bottled bliss,
eagerly and professionally selling:
beauty, happiness, companionship---
all for the price of $1.50 with tax
at the cost of only my dignity.
Affordability and availability,
it's no wonder it's high in demand.
The American success story:
to sell simple desires
to the lazy, naïve man,
who believes he can't
obtain them otherwise.

"May These Words"

May these words in ink
live longer than those in breath
and endure the repeated age
where hypocrisy preaches
at the public podium,
shaking hands with Dishonesty
who covers the news.

May these observations on pages
paint brighter than hesitant eyes that fade
and illustrate the wrathful ghosts
that whisper false truths
on rain-coated sidewalks,
following Rage's footsteps
who vehemently scorns at children.

May these impressions on paper
dig deeper than those in spiteful hearts
and teach the patient students
who intently and diligently listen
within the congested parade's protest,
that screams for their master's attention
in exchange for their human rights.

May these humble reminders
be retained more often than my memoir
which reads euphoric epiphanies
commonly received as the norm,
learned from anonymous sources,
shared collectively by avid readers
who seek comfort in the man-made future.

May you forget my name, but quote my legacy
more as common sense than new ideas
for a poet's crumbled, graphite-soaked papers
change less than the actions of people
who march together, who sing together,
who work together, who smile together---
the singular entity worthy of remembrance.

If your aim is
to apathetically gather
the useless trivial facts
of unfamiliar strangers,
then simply ask:

"What is your favorite color?"
"What is your favorite food?"
"What is your favorite music?"

Repeat, regurgitate, etc.

If your aim is
to understand and engage
the delicate identity
of a human being,
then diligently follow with:

"Why?"

I stay wary
of the winds and rain
which may sully my shoes.
I am not a creator of weather,
thus unavoidable, I walk forward.
Yet, the passing storm
is not responsible
for tying my laces,
that if I were to stumble,
trip and fall into agony,
it will be of my own doing.