When you're upset
So upet that it hurts

Just tell yourself
That
Well, life is short

And that this is just temporary
It'll get better

And even though today you're under the weather

Tomorrow is a new day
I promise it will be ok

I once read a poem about change.
How we have the ability to change anytime.
How we're the only ones in our way.

But on my path to change, I discovered that I wasn't the only thing in my way.
I discovered that old habits die hard.
I discovered that your old friends won't always take kindly to new friends.
That your best friend can become your worst enemy.

And those things will stop you from changing.

Being afraid of losing the people you know best.
Being afraid of letting new people know the most intimate parts of you.

And while that may seem like you stopping yourself, it isn't.

It's a whole other cavity.
It's fear.
And fear isn't something we can control.
It is however something we can eventually overcome.

You have to overcome all that fear or else your change will just turn into an even worse version of you.

beware when you fall in love
with an artist
be it a painter, a singer, or poet

for the artist will
paint you
with strokes and hues
in shapes of every kind

sing about you
with heartbreak lyrics
and feelings which rhyme

write about you
with the simplest words
and a secret message she wants to say

beware of the artist,
and her love
one wrong move
and you're an artwork in her display

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands