The rain runs,
spreading the stone polished
and clean.
Like this, you must
let the water slip
on the back of your unkissed neck,
the curved dips between
your fingertips,
nestle
in the soft folds around your waist
that you hate,
and stumble on your collarbones,
your genetic mistakes.

Let it slide on the stretch marks
skimming your thighs
like fog diffusing across the hills,
and inside the grooves of your too-large ears,
form little streams.
Let it wash away
and unearth these parts of you
where you don't want to look,
where your lotion never reaches.

These are the little patches of soil
you must water with care.
Flowers, flaws -
how much is the difference?
One day a lover will give them a kiss
and you will understand
why we are so tender
with broken things.

Let them bloom, and see yourself
wilder, as you grow,
for gardens are most beautiful
with some ferociousness.

They hail you as their morning star
Because you are the way you are.
If you return the sentiment,
They'll try to make you different;
And once they have you, safe and sound,
They want to change you all around.
Your moods and ways they put a curse on;
They'd make of you another person.
They cannot let you go your gait;
They influence and educate.
They'd alter all that they admired.
They make me sick, they make me tired.

Love is for the poor,
and money for the rich
but wisdom is reserved
for those who caught the itch
of curiosity for the fact that they exist.


Those sparse few who dare
to put their faith into people
but expect not to see the eyes of god
inside of another man’s cathedral.
Knowing well that these lies and laws
could never guide us past the flaws
of good and evil.


Only believe in the dreamer
who refuses the role of a follower
and shuns the idea of a leader.
Be not deceived by status or acclaim
because it only makes you a disciple
of a product and a name.


Hold in high regard the tired hikers
born to the depths of the deepest valleys
and yet they rise before the light of dawn
like a striker to set ablaze the malaise
of these pedestrian days
that mock our souls
with monotonous toil.


This life is but an eternal recurrence
therefore every morn we are born anew
and that potential is a shot at transference
into something more eminent than you.
Become the bridge my friend
because there is no future
in being an end.

Daisy, Daisy, how lovely
to be a banal child.
Safe from harm and hurt and death,
your roots do hold you wild.

Your life doth last some while
as you carry on
nourished by your parent ground;
shan't your woes be gone?

But oh, how lovely it would be
to be the blessed Rose;
what charm, what awe, what livelihood
one of that kind knows.

Daisy, Daisy, how lovely
to live a mundane while.
Your beauty lies in lengthy life,
your commonplace beguiles.

Rose, God bless thee.
How quick you were to go
into a world so bitter
from roots you did not know.

Your beauty hath betrayed thee,
it steals thy youth away;
for now a lonely glass encasement
encases your decay.

If you had been a daisy,
your youth, your life, prolonged,
how lovely it would have been
to feel the earth so long.

Rose, God bless thee.
How putrid life must be
flattering the eyes of those
blind to your despondency.