"...But truthfully I'd rather stare at your hands. I enjoy how they never shake the way mine do as though I've been carrying an object as heavy as my heart for too long; but they're always empty. I enjoy the way you wrap them around pencils, and coffee cups with a tight grip. I like the way you make it seem like you don't let go very easily. I used to rest in weak hands. I used to slip through the fingers of people who shook me off while I held on as though my life depended on them. I think the problem with the way I live is that I often never give myself the satisfaction of controlling whats mine. I'm not strong enough to make anyone stay. I'm not good enough for them to ever want to. I've lived with this reality making home in my mind but there's something about the way you looked at me this morning; kind of the way an artist looks at a finished canvas in total awe. Maybe that was the moment that I realized that I should probably stop staring at your hands and make love to your eyes. The way the light up as though you've been swallowing lightning bugs. The way you never hesitate to let them linger. The way their blue reminds me of the walls of my grandmas house that was built up with hands that look just like yours. I like the way you stare even when your blood isn't laced with alcohol. Almost as though I'm the painting that no matter how long you look at it; it still remains beautiful. The truth is, my walls are covered in love letters and poems written for someone I never knew... that was until I met you."

You are more than a masterpiece.

what does your hand reach for
away from the power source?
why do you reach away from that which will heal and help you?
fame in the west
false sense of security and peace in the north
greed fuels the reach for the east
down south you will find heartbreak and misery
don't overextend yourself
give yourself a backache from reaching for a happiness that will never come
instead, turn inward for a moment
reach for the light that is within you
give the richest parts of yourself away
and there you will find true happiness.

And I think about my grandmother,
her weathered hands with deliberate strokes.
Maroon and purple flowers,
dead grasses crunch under the hairs of the brush,
decaying branches grasp toward the vast blue.

A rustic fence separates the decaying foreground
from the wet mountains one day I will reach

The background in my close distance
but her shaking hands glide over
easily navigating the rocky terrain
with ashen color, to touch
the tops of the mountains that tease the sky

She will paint her way to the clouds
alone her brush will travel
creating every stroke along the way.

no any form of art was as priceless as her.

Write for the heart to speak
Scream with thy soul
Release the unbroken wing
Send it with thy papers feed
Let them be
Let them bleed
As your art is thy *love

Heard from a roof top  of...
Buncha zeros and ones
My *******
heros' and nuns!

How your story is spun!
Little smigdet pinch of da' fiction
This IT SON!
OHhhhh noooo nooooe
This is the end of...
What's pinned up.

So chin up!
Eyes open!
Look deep
Close to
Where there's
Hope there's
Peace.
Even when we can't see.