I had so many plans
I thought it would all
be so different
the people would look different
the sky would shine bluer
I would be more experienced
and less curious
but it all remains the same
things come and go
but it's all the same
I have different plans and expectations
that will only be met if I let them
and in three years
the doormat will have four more holes
the windows will collect more dust
and my hair might be longer
but the mat and the windows and I will be the same
we are.
we just are.
and at the end of the day
there's nothing I can ask for
and nothing I can do.

you see,
my poetry
is written by hand.
and my hand
is an extension of my heart. because I can find no other way to express how it
continues to beat day after day without fail than to move my pencil to the same rhythm
and no
I don't always keep perfect time
but neither does my
   heart.

We are so intent on figuring out
what we are going to be
that we forget to focus on what we are
nothing can change in the future
if it doesn't change now.
And it's okay to have goals
but don't think of them as plans
think of them as a command, a calling
and start immediately
the first few steps are always the most difficult
it
will
be
difficult
that's right
but once you find your footing, the path will start to look more level
so when someone asks you where you want to be
in however many years
tell them what they want to hear
but know
that you're already on your way.

My head is encased
in a web
of thoughts
that thrash with cloven tongues and silver lips
at my battered brain.
clearing my head is futile
for every time
i attempt to break free
the web of whispered rumination
tightens its grip.