When I believed in monsters
And hid under my bed from the tooth fairy
Back in the days of lizard chasing for hours
Fall was the best season.
Fall was everything and everything was Fall.
The seas of leaves, Falling down, scraping knees
The feel of  the breeze and tire swings hanging on oak trees taller than fear was deep.
Spring water tasted sweeter than sleep.
Dreams were no different from real life.

All was Fall.
Falling down, falling up.
Falling in, falling out, falling in-

You sometimes remind me of the skin I shed. Bit by bit with every trip.
Building better birdhouses. Bruises, scars, and callouses.
Falling down to the ground. Fall leaves all around.
Scraping knees raw. Growing back...and forth.
Growing in and out.
Falling.

Catching myself halfway in a reverie.
Coming out. Coming back into the house.
Coming up the hill, growing up still.
Feeling like falling in love wasn't real.

But you sometimes remind me



of when I thought it was

My love,
         take your time
It's all yours,
         take it off my hands
         (which bleed with it)
And if you prefer to steal it,
         that is not a crime,
         but peel your affection
         (layer by layer)
         from my heart
         (slowly)
         See how I've given you
A head start?

I'm not quite sure
when the dark thought
first came to me;

it crept up softly
and quietly, like a black cat
in the garden of night;

like a light through a crack
in a door opening slowly
and too soon; or perhaps

a drowning man in the deep
waving back at the moon;
too far over his head.

Ten years after or
ten minutes late
for my own funeral
and my wake;
ten too soons ago
and one sun too late
and ten to be a'comin'
and ten more
in a row I live
not ten seconds before
anticipating
or ten seconds afters
regret....
Just now and then
and ten more;
just like that.

I transform
Each time
You read me
~
I am alive

Don't categorize yourself with someone else, don't lump yourself into a specific type. One similarity does not a commonality make. A million and one people may all have done what you've done or felt what you've felt but that does not breed you together into one common group or make their goals yours or your goals something they have any possibility of reaching. It may sound cliche but you are the only you, no one else could be you or truly understand everything you've ever felt to the core of your being since you've become you. And this you, the one you stare at every day in the mirror, is not the you you've always been and is certainly not the you you'll always be. You are continually changing and becoming more than you've ever been before. If you keep trying and doing and working towards something, anything that's better than what you are right now then you've already surpassed every category, type or group that you lumped yourself into. You are not a category. You are not what anyone else thinks you are. You are what you try to become, what you hope to become, what you've always dreamed you'd become.

He tossed his radio out the window.
95 piece orchestra and composer
hurled through the air.
As Wagner crashed
he cracked open a bottle of wine
to take his mind off
his hatred for the predictable.
Then her ghost came to him
like he knew she would;  
to haunt him,
to taunt him.
Though there was nothing scary
about her cool milky thighs
sliding out of a butter yellow skirt.

Ash woven words blow upon the wind
as my mind is aflame as incendiary ideas
Ignited within.

Smoked damaged odours linger upon the
collective thoughts, embers of now cooled
interpretations slowly cohere into meaning.

And then the sparks of combustion on my mind,
like doves of ash they fly to where ever
that thought is needed and then rests.

I am not
who I want to be
like the addict
with the needle
I'm stuck on
being feeble
seeing moments
and not seizing them.

In the mirror
my reflection is
that of someone I recognize
like the friend
who always seeks advice
but never follows it
my mind is
a schematic of pipes
that do not connect.

My intentions
drip from my
open ends
once real and
once there
each one
broken by distraction.

My focus is
honed in to the
weight of the world
like the single mother
spread too thin
fighting this many battles
I'll never win.

My content heart
seems to depend on
factors outside myself
like the young girl
caught in the politics of
middle school social hierarchy
I can't make decisions
when I can't hear myself.

Listening to my intuition
is something I've
forgotten to do
it's muscle memory
like tying a shoe.

It's seizing moments
reflecting on my life
living according to morals
and recognizing that action
sometimes belies intent
and it is then that
apologies are necessary
they are
not signs of weakness
when they are used right.

It's focusing on
the right things
in deep
meaningful doses
making sure to stop
and smell the roses
to your heart's content.