Dear reader,

Have I mastered the art of being sad, making my everyday living slumbering in dreamland fantasy?  Then my reality is in wintry weathery moments that I feel numb from too much cold. Is isolation my best buddy for the mean time? Well those questions will remain in this journal, to immortalize the moment of my depressing situation.

I brought up the transparent duct tape in placed always for people to see the lively image I pretend. Sometimes I’m tired of the choices and expectations I created. Though I never regret all of them, I just find them depressing for often times I wonder did I really make an awful choice.  Still at the back of my mind I fantasize a positive outcome of all those.

Wisdom grows as you aged, Maturity becomes you and Changes have eaten you. Now I wonder did I totally embrace reality or my life in tune with negativity. Despite all this, I will surely survive and live up to the choices I created. Someday I will surpass this in time.

            Thank you for reading…

Your friendly neighbor,
w.Pax :(

Can I touch your hair?
No.

Neglecting that I have no knowledge of
the sanitation of your hands
Nor am I in the mood for questions
I do not hold the answers to.

My hair speaks of a thousand stories
you will not appreciate.
My hair speaks for millions of women
Darkened by birth or sun.

So no, you can’t touch my hair.

Riding on the back of a super nova
into your blackhole of paradise
a ticket to Mars with Jupiter rising
Saturns rings engulf me into a star lit abyss
orbiting Uranus in a stellar galactic trist
my rocket ship glows in unquenchable fire
riding to Andromeda on the back of ecstatic bliss
exploding in a meteor shower, sealed with a kiss.

Fingers make contact with hands,
                                             we can’t stand like,
butter
flies
     on
       a
tree branch

amidst a strange wind.

Fluttering above
trees rooted in sidewalks,
out of sight.

And it feels like
the texture of our shirts
is truth,
    the cat fur,
       the bed sheets,
           our clenched teeth,
Molly whispers in our head
a meditative melody,
and we’re rollin,'
our infinite eyes
hung together
in widened silence,
enjoying a good lie.
Indigo children
with no words, just hands,
applauding the feeling,
dreading the end.
Time past,
grown up,
deflated,
we come down
to see that
sober is just
categorizing
adjectives.

All I want for Christmas
is some food to eat.
Oh what a treat
to have some meat.

All I want for Christmas
is clean water to drink,
stuff that doesn't stink,
that would be cool I think.

All I want for Christmas
is the bombs to stop,
no more to drop.
That would be the top.

All I want for Christmas
is for our food to grow,
the plants we sow
now that would be a show.

All I want for Christmas
is to be free to learn.
Not to be a germ
because I want to learn.

All I want for Christmas
is some medication.
and some dedication
from the United Nation.

All I want for Christmas
is to grow up strong.
Am I so wrong
wanting to belong.

All I want for Christmas
is some equal rights
and somewhere to sleep
through the coldest nights.

All I want for Christmas
is to earn a crust.
With employers
that we can really trust.

All I want for Christmas
is a chance at life
for a man and wife
not to live in strife.

All I want for Christmas
is oh so far away
and on this day
this is what I pray.

is here
and it tastes
like rain
The slight chill in
the air sends spasms of
delight down
my spine
during long walks
through mud, gravel, and
new grass
Splintered sunlight throws
shadows dancing
and geese form their
bold vee's overheard
sailing through the
stratosphere like
feathered ships with
trails of
cosmic sparkle
The sandpipers I watch
as they scuttle
about on
spindly legs, making funny
little tracks in
the sand at
the roadside
Waves lap on the
shore of a pond, ripples
made by a clean wind blowing
down from the ether
A star burst sky
hangs above
dotted with gossamer
wisps of vapor
and the occasional
falcon or hawk, swooping
with the greatest intensity
you could imagine,
wings going
down
up
down
There is music in
our veins
this time of year;
the dirt has
a pulse
of its own
And as I squint
out at the
light-drenched scape
I begin to
grasp the sweetness
of renewal,
the infinitesimal bravery
of that
tiny flower
pushing its way out
of the earth

There is solace in being alone
Memories etched in the heart
Loneliness cannot breach
Memoirs scripted by them
Every word infused with love

Hey, celebrate the loser
not just the victor
it's OK that you don't always win
like the time
your little sister could find the answer
to a Year 10 math question
and you couldn't do it
though you were older

it's OK...to be a loser, not a winner always
like the time you argued and argued
and turned out you were wrong
but you just slipped away quietly
and you've suppressed it in your memory

it's OK if you don't have stories
to tell of your victories always
and how others were wrong
and you were right
or others have no principles and ethics
how you are the 90%winner
or everyone else is ******* the planet
it's OK to be the loser
and to celebrate the loser in you
and I don't say this
because of some liberating paradox like
winners start from being losers -
but simply it's OK to celebrate losing
just losing oneself in the loser
Have no other thought in the moment -
*it's OK to celebrate the loser