.                         just              a kiss
                      just    a         light     kiss
               just an I know what it’s like kiss
           just  to  know  what  it’s  like  to  kiss
     when the  night wets  your smile like  a  kiss
and   the   warmth  in   my  eyes  would  not  miss
    we could lean close and touch with our lips
                   it would just be a kiss
                             just a kiss

The heart is an egg and it’s meant to be broken.
No greater truth has ever been spoken.
Tragedy makes the shell weaker and worn
To allow what’s inside of our hearts to be born.

“But what is born?” you might ask.
Well, what’s beneath and beyond our mask.
“But what’s our mask?” you will plea.
Well, it’s our ego, which lives fearfully.

The ego wants and needs and fears.
It gives us a voice to express our cheers,
But what it wants is never enough:
What can’t **** fear is worthless stuff.

And so we settle for living with fear,
But that can’t make us happy here.
Then our hearts lead us on with a specific notion:
A deeper yearning for a fulfilling devotion.

So we allow our hearts to lead us on
In the hopes that our empty feeling will be gone,
But we don’t know that our hearts are made for breaking
So that what’s inside of them can start its waking.

Expectations not coming through
Can make us feel deeply sad and blue.
And once we feel our lives falling apart
That makes way for a broken heart.


When we feel everything coming to an end –
All the pleasure and all the winning –
We’ll realize it’s not something we ourselves can mend,
And that will be a new beginning!

Then we’ll cry out for HELP and say:
“Hello Eternal Loving Presence.
Please show me the way.”
And we’ll humbly surrender to God’s guiding essence.

After our heart breaks and our ego is dead,
We will finally feel what it means to be free:
We will no longer be living inside our head,
And what our heart birthed will taste of eternity.

This is what is meant to be,
And this is why our heart must be broken.
What we want most is to be set free.
No truer words were ever spoken.

Consider Jesus Christ and the way that He died.
This is the GREAT TRUTH Jesus knew very well.
Jesus rose to Heaven only after being crucified.
You see, THE ROAD TO HEAVEN GOES THROUGH HELL.

Now I lay me down to sleep
To commune with what is deep.
Far beyond my thoughts I go
To a place I cannot know.
In sleep there is no consciousness,
Where thought divides and separates.
In sleep we drink of oneness,
And oneness is what satiates.

Putting into words what hurts
Is what a poet’s meant to do.
Broken glass and bloodied shirts
Must be traversed to speak what’s true.

Vocabulary’s not enough,
And clever rhymes will bore and tire.
A poet needs much finer stuff
To capture inspiration’s fire.

A brave heart unconfused by tears
To travel deep where feelings grow,
And pass through pain and rage and fears
To where love and love’s passions flow.

That won’t turn from emotions which
Disturb, repulse, or terrify.
A poet fits feelings so rich
Into swift thoughts so they won’t die.

Patience is required too.
And silence, unseen like a ghost,
To still what needs to be pierced through
Then clearly grasp what hides from most.

And vision that sees past what seems
So real to eyes fixed on today
To bring to light those future dreams
For which our hearts silently pray.

But what is needed most is soul,
A soul well traveled through and through,
For poets to fulfill their role
And show what’s in us all to you.

I tried to walk my parents’ road,
Thinking they’d know what’s best for me,
But could not justify the load
Nor do things I did not believe.

I walked my generation’s road,
Thinking it’d be what’s best for me,
Until discovering that their load
Was but a masked conformity.

I took an independent road,
Thinking I’d sense what’s best for me,
And followed intuition’s load
Beyond accepted sanity.

I found myself upon a road,
A quiet road that carried me,
Unburdened me of all my load
And all my thoughts of what should be.

I realize now my life’s a road,
A road upon an inner land,
That cannot predefine its load,
And where it goes is where I stand.

Every face tells a story:
Sad to be alive
Or living in glory;
Struggling to survive
Or living without worry;
Wanting to consume more and more and more,
Or moving through life eager to learn and explore.

Football is a game of inches.
Basketball’s a game of angles.
Some faces say that their life pinches.
Some faces say that they are angels.

Do you prefer to live in fear
And wear a face without much cheer?
Or would you rather see through the gray
And wear your face a more cheerful way?
And not using your brain to its full capacity
Reflects on your face as a lack of curiosity.

Yes, every face tells a story:
Between feeling distraught about why you’re here
And living peacefully without worry;
Between living in a constant state of fear
And living in a constant state of glory.

So what’s your face say? What’s your story?
Are you living in fear or living in glory?

If I could live again,
I’d want to live it all.
I wouldn’t stir or strive when
Half-baked urges came to call.
**** what everybody does.
**** the things done just to prove.
I wouldn’t change how anybody was;
I’d learn to transform my own groove.

If I could live again,
I’d sail my dreams for gold.
I’d ride out all my hunches, then
I’d learn to live them bold.
I’d never go half wanting,
And I wouldn’t go if shoved.
I’d seek only what was haunting
Me, and only things I loved.