If you accept this woven fate,
So fearlessly you charge ahead,
There is no more time to hesitate.

Don't be despair in your head,
Live with any more regrets,
In the face of that certain hurt.

Don't mourn on this lost love that fell,
Gentleman doesn't go only to Hell,
Celebrate your inner strengths to heal.

Maybe you will meet her again,
In the twilight of the gods,
One day against all odds.

Since birth you learned,
You know how to survive,
Because you are still alive.

A new world can reborn,
On your devastated ground,
It is up to you to spin the wheel.

Someone once told you,
“Boys don’t cry.”
And for a while,
you believed them.

But like a flower,
kissed by the sun
and nurtured by the rain,
you opened yourself to the world.

And the world can be harsh.
Cloudy days can be cruel.
But if you wait for the sun,
I promise it will come back.

Your empathy may destroy you,
but that’s the price you must pay
to feel happiness and love
as deeply as you do.

And they will tell you,
“You are weak.”
But darling,
you are not weak.

And they will tell you
“You are less than.”
But darling,
you are more.

Boy who cries, you are beautiful.
But they will tell you
you are not.

Don’t listen.

We could hack this beast to death
But then the carcass would rot and stink;
Better it would be to tame it
And teach it to be a sheep.

We are not quaint.
Deformed and distant like beaten up mementos -
Echoes of tired dialogues.
We are tendencies of aspiration.
Saved by an abundance of correlation.
Dancing along to the frantic motions
of the perils of self-help.

The scripture is loud.
Revised as we drive through drenched tunnels -
Vying for admiration.
Praying for the jubilant ******* -
Into stale dimensions of all that is
Worthy of a second-hand perception.

We are not selling.
We are in the business
of craving to perspire.
Tasting and testing
the competence of turmoil
and exchanging fragments
of our being
for profitable desolation.

We are growing up,
in slow motion.
Drunk on trajectory interactions
of the menial day-dreams.

I saw a famous man eating soup.
I say he was lifting a fat broth
Into his mouth with a spoon.
His name was in the newspapers that day
Spelled out in tall black headlines
And thousands of people were talking about him.

    When I saw him,
He sat bending his head over a plate
Putting soup in his mouth with a spoon.

Some say
she is lost to writing poems
snippets, little vignettes of beauty
so much nature inspired, obsessed
with green, botany driven desires
forever in skies, blue, or black with stars
meteor showers, falling, melting
like the liquid silver, red sea of mars
crashing waves, her days
tossed, tumbled, stumbling onto poetry
there is no fault, in words
no shame to be made
would be a sorrowful price to pay
she is writing to find
some truths, a sleuth, a seeker
of going within, without doubt
writing to find herself
most days searching out signs of life
to feel what it would be like, to be
in trees, in leaves, to sleep in green towers
of garden lily bowers
to finally dream in lucid colors, surreal
climbing invisible ladders
in orchards of apple blossom Springs
to sing, sing, sing