Because nothing is everything.
Because I am shades, hues, and versions of "me" across time,
and much space...
Much space that comes to equal almost no distance at all,
between numbers and measurements-
for what can be counted as "this life"...
I am neither near nor far.
I know not the difference between here or there,
and all at once I am coming and going.
Yes, there are many movements where I am,
much to be touched and moved by,
And while I am removed from
the idea of certainty in itself,
I am if nothing else, that contradiction-
as I am sure of myself.
And so...
Everything can not ever amount to nothing,
because I am not afraid, only curious.

Born under an orange moon full, almost named that baby Harvest,
came quick with kaleidoscope eyes inlaid in porcelain-
Open wide, like she already knew the world was starving.

Pulling angels down on kite strings.
Sending love back up to sender on sparrow's wings.
Counting the hairs on my head, that many blessings.
While faces, voices, warriors, tigers left at the waterfall guessing.

I walked down to the pond.
Just the small, silk, silent, pond...
Saw the stars reflecting there on the water,
the world turned upside down.
I'm fine with that kind of beauty,
Because,

Isn't that what brought her?

There are those possessing the kind of beauty with which you cannot be born.
It is not pined after, bought, taught, or painted on...
but the rough around the edges kind of worn.
For to become it one must know strife and sadness, fear and yet still uninhabited wildness..
To be melted, corroded, and then shaped again by the earth where she lay-
like clay but out of the dirt-
It is never made and left to be with an air of mildness.
Like a broken vase, whose shards become a mosaic held back together with gold,
It's the honesty in fragility, the new-found strength and even glimmer in all of her cracks.
The warrior who tattoos every scar into vines symbolizing the growth
forever enfolding her soul.
You earn that kind of beauty when you realize-
you can not be empty and are too much of everything to be a fraction of anything
so there is only to be whole.

That is raw.
That is real.
That is really beautiful.





-This one is for my Mom.
The strongest one I know.-

The bathroom is my favorite room.
It's where I reflect, relieve, refresh myself even if just literally.
also, it's there that I change every day even if it's just my clothes.
It's where I powder my nose and rouge my cheeks-
where I spend time "getting beautiful"...
and then where I wash the idea that I'm not, without down the drain when the night is over.
It's got the 2 largest windows per the smallest space in the house-
and the bottom half of the pane is blurry so I only see the tops of trees and sky clearly.
From that perspective, that outside could be almost anywhere.
It's where I am most often naked alone.
The bathroom is where I flush all my **** away-
And I know that everyone else has to too, even the pope, the president, and Brad Pitt.
There's sea shells on the walls in mine though,
And it's there I sing the loudest, the longest, because the acoustics sound the best.
I like the bathroom because as ***** as I can be walking in,
I walk out clean again.

Large black eyes like oil pools set in faces snow white...
Perched in twisted branches and silence, risen above the mist,
and the twilight has still not quite faded into night.
I've been dreaming of Owls in the trees,
I know, I can feel that they are not only there watching me...
So I seek the meaning while believing,
in listening to what speaks to us while we sleep-
even if only deriving the message from imagery,
I recognize the language, dreams are our subconscious synergy.
The delicate and intricate ornamentation silvery and fleeting,
They are this darkness's filigree.