I was not force fed ideas
Growing up my mom viewed us as wild flowers
Strong enough to soak up the sun in our own way
Allowing weeds to share our space
Never choking
Their chance at living just as important as our own
Guidelines were simple, still are
Respect others
Your space is precious, as is their's
Forgive transgressions
Grudges will fester
Above all
Listen
*You hear a lot more if you are not only waiting for your turn to talk

we are nothing but lights
dancing through an illuminated night.

tangled feet beneath our legs
we spin and crash in different ways.

our laughs echo through invisible walls
chasing us down abandoned halls.

youth behind us and death in our eyes
I always imagined a different way to die.

The sideline view
Of a poet's life.
Topics free falling
In ranks of predictable verse.
Lacking vitality,
Inspirations disperse.

My thoughts wander.
Vibrating to the hum of
Flourescent lights above,
As the cursor blinks
In hypnotic rhythm.
Drawing me into
The pale blank screen
And beyond.

Falling once again
Into daydreams
Of her golden hair glowing
In Autumns waning light.
Hands merged in a gentle grip
Warming the evening chill
With a soft peck of our lips.

Longing in stillness,
Attending in silence,
The cursor, again, must wait
The many pensive stages
In a poet's futile task of
Placing verses on pages.