write as if you have something to say
because you do

write as if the sky wasn't blue and every day is as upside down as the next
write in colors then write in black and white

write to me
write to those who need it the most, even if they won't admit it

write about your dreams and hopes for the future
and watch them come alive before your very eyes

as you write whatever thought comes out of your head
though it may sound like gibberish

write because you can
it is your freedom

write novels that span pages upon pages bound together by leather or
some short words

write as if he didn't break your heart
and then write as if he did to piece it back together

write to unlock doors and open minds
write to make others and, more importantly, yourself aware

write because you will see
you will see your ideas trickle down into your fingertips and out your pen

onto a tangible and real medium that you may look back on one day
and remember why you started writing in the first place

write to make sense of what doesn't
in hopes that, one day, it'll be more than just in writing

write and fold it into a creaseless paper plane
let it fly and, boy, enjoy seeing where it takes you

then write to: home on one of those rectangular postcards
document every day and its little details

write it all down
and then live it all out

some things we can't write about.

the moon glows brightly
her corners smudged
at the edges,

night drinks from a holy well,
a cavernous black sinks
into the dark lakes of the skies,

sinks further and further
autumn is awakening
loosening her hair
that falls in a golden net,

the first leaves crackle
in smokey knots,

sink beneath
the honeys of an
autumn sky,

lost in the woods
that start to trickle in a
stream of fiery gold
from branch to floor,
where the stars
still sing of the last spells
of summer.

Which side of the looking glass
am I even in?

her hands left graveyards.
over and over, she longed to
hold his heart
but only managed to barely touch
with her fingertips,
just barely within reach
each time

he didn't know what to do with all the headstones

I wish to know the universe in all its various weird manifestations. I want to hibernate inside a lenticular cloud for one year straight; I want to be suspended among cryophiles living inside ice cores buried deep deep underneath cold opal blue polar ice glaciers and snowfields; I want to be amid the thermophiles and feel the flames of the sun lick the very essence of my soul from within its hot orange nuclear molten core; I want to wander in space, float in zero g from one celestial body to the other.

But most of all, I want to be. Jus be. Like a bullfrog on a lily pad croaking into the cold thin night.