The people are strange,
the culture is odd,
the people are diverse,
the culture is a facade.

Life isn't a museum,
a display for the holy,
life is an infirmary,
for the beaten down,
the lonely.

I find that I love them anyway,
their humor is wholesome,
their personas loving,
this is a necessary evil.

Who you are is a series of gestures,
successful or otherwise,
who you are is a collection of mementos,
who you are is loved,
the only thing worth being.

Alex’s shirt is so old-school,
that it’s almost new age.
It’s fabric is home to many a fish,
swimming around his shoulders and sleeves.
I like fish in more ways than one,
I like them as dinner,
but never as lunch.
I like them as friends,
but never as lovers.
I feel that fish live a fortunate life,
they don’t feel sad,
or feel pain,
they aren't even aware of their surroundings.
They hang out in schools,
but oddly,
they never learn anything.
Ignorance is bliss,
fish are lucky this way,
and even though fish are uneducated,
I like to think they each have their own stories.
People say fish can’t be happy,
but I've never met a depressed fish,
and there is something to be said about that.

In honor of Lewis Carroll
and the way in which he has filled
my life with wonder.*

In a wonderland they lie,
dreaming as the days go by,
they live,
they laugh,
and truthfully,
they do love.

Ponder and pray,
and I’m sure you’ll find,
no better way,
to pass the time.

They sit and they smile,
and dream good dreams,
of love and of life,
lacking a thing called strife.

They dream of dreams that glitter as they gleam,
swirl and twirl,
as they travel downstream.

They list away and stare at the clouds,
Smiling so brightly,
The sun himself would be proud.
no tears,
no pain,
and from love,
there can be no lies,
it’s as if the world,
and its skies,
were nothing but a game.

Some may find it a trial,
but give it some time,
and I’m sure that you’ll find,
there is no such thing as guile.

Ah Sunflower,
grown weary of life,
whose petals gleam,
under a summer sky.

Whose petals fall,
with winter’s soft embrace.
think not of other flowers,
look life squarely in its face.

Love only the sticky dew,
of spring,
and of summer.
dream not,
of the coming Autumn,
and its colorful rot.

Know that you are loved,
and under a gardener’s watchful eye,
you’ll bloom once more,
gleaming under a summer sky.

What is freedom?
Freedom is the ability to choose for yourself.
Freedom is a choice between what is,
and what can be.
Freedom is empowering others to love themselves.

What is your government?
Who are these impostors who speak about the need to breath,
but won’t let us?
Who fights for freedom and equality?
No one.
These men fight against us for the slice of a pie,
lining their pockets as kids in Africa die.
The people shouldn't fear their government,
the government should fear its people.

What is the value of a dollar?
Is it the freedom to eat?
Or the cement wrapped tight around your feet,
water forced between your teeth?
Who is freer?
The Baker Boy?
Scraping by on a dime?
Or old man flush with pedigree?
Drunk with greed and the taste of fine wine?
Freedom is being faced with two equally infallible truths,
and choosing deftly between the two,
which sounds better to you?

Who is freer?
Those who choose to drop f-bombs on stage,
or those who drop bombs of wisdom in its place?
Don’t be discouraged when the one locked down is you,
when the wicked wage war in your home terrain,
when you struggle back and forth,
with the pain of being raised a Jew.

Who decides your fate?
Who decides your fate when your rent is late?
Who decides your fate when you discover your son is gay?
Who decides your fate when the crest falls flat?
Who decides your fate when the tumor is malignant?
Who decides your fate when your sutures fall out?
Who decides your fate when you find you've lost your way?
Who decides your fate when the embers die down?
Who decides your fate when sorrow silently drips across your face?
Who decides your fate when the voices inside your head can’t seem to agree?
You,
your life is yours to create.

What bars our freedom?
Oppression,
Persecution,
Indecision,
Doubt,
Hatred,
Cont­ention,
Jealousy,
Addiction,
Pride,
And most importantly of all,
(Silence)
Fear.

Yes!
Fear is no friend of freedom,
Antithesis to the dream.
Fear is a struggling shadow,
Cast behind us as we gleam.
Contrast,
Darkness exists through the brightness of the sun.
Our predisposition isn't for failure,
But bursting forth grasping for freedom’s sake.
Don’t settle for sickly shadows,
Accept only warm smiles between friends at the end of the day.

Do you hear that?
That’s the sound of freedom,
The march of liberty.
Fear isn't the courage to stand up for a friend,
Fear isn't the strength to share what you believe in,
Fear isn't holding a friends hand when they've lost their sight,
Fear isn't within a friend’s victory finding only delight,
*But freedom is!

Sunlight streaming,
piercing closed shades,
a painful reminder of a new day.

Weakness in the bones,
stricken by metal and stone,
mind beaten down,
by howling winds.

A true story told,
father and son,
a story so old,
God only knows.

Soon the cold creeps in,
ice water in the veins,
reminded again,
of the avaricious and bold,
false actions of men.

Just then,
a young girl walks in,
face so young,
her soul so old,
warm glints of sunshine,
shown kindly on shimmer locks.

A fresh dish of water,
a spring in her step,
as though heaven set her pace,
chasing winter from an old man's face.

The cleansing of skin,
a mother’s soft embrace,
wounds re-wrapped and retold,
winces replaced,
a twinkling in its place.

It is okay to sigh,
to dream and reminiscence,
but don’t lose your sight,
God loves you child,
this is not your punishment.

Eyes wide open,
tilted towards the sky,
twinkle therein,
laughing softly as constellations die.

Star after star,
falling from the sky,
each tethered to a soul,
vanishing as they die.

Beautiful face,
expressive and perceptive,
lively and lovely,
a Mona Lisa in your own time.

Star after star,
falling from the sky,
laying back against blades of grass,
and though the these blades are dull,
they press against you sharply,
a reminder of the fact that everyday children die.

Shaken to the core,
tears well up inside,
letting yourself go,
not a spirit in sight.

Journey just begun,
step by step,
gathering up your sadness in your arms,
that’s what makes you different.

Your beauty is elusive,
tangible and otherwise,
sharp and sweet,
your beauty stems not from what you aren't,
but what you are.