If I could have warm days outside

And a cool breeze,

With a doobie

And a hammock,

I'd be forever satisfied.

Oh, the joy it brings

To witness and to write

Of all of life's

Beautiful things.

I think I have come to the realization
That poetry is my soul.

It is the song my soul sings,
It is the air I breathe,
Depth, the only language I speak.

I only lose my writing
When I've lost myself.

And her heart blew with a flurry of passion.

Carrying the dandelion seeds
All across the globe
To plant loving wishes
In strangers hearts.

Sometimes I wonder
Is it more beautiful
For two opposing forces
To clash together
And make something new
Or would it be better
To fill in your cracks
With your other
Missing half?

Is there a line that we all draw ourselves somewhere in the sands of time?
Marking the point in your life where, 'just beyond this, is crazy'?

Do you play with yours too?
Balancing, tip-toeing, peeking, backing up and
Running to the edge right before you
Catch yourself on the tip of your toe, to turn around and keep looking down.

The big jump.

Do we all wonder and ask ourselves?

What if?

What if I just did it?
What if I just did the THING?

The scarier thing for me is being stuck, sandwiched on the tightrope between just ******* jumping and never jumping at all.

Always wondering.
Always daydreaming.

Living,
Breathing,
Walking
Regret.