You
make me feel everything,
all at once,
in ways I've never experienced.

I
don't like that.

Only darkness can show
silver collisions in the sky
that we like to think are specs.
Frosty foam greets the shore
with a smile and a hug.
I see nothing but the white,
but I know the waves
are soft enough to sustain me.
This thing called night can be eerie,
but I’m silently complacent.
Please don’t utter a word
so I can live in this.
Not even the sharp sand
beneath my feet
can distract the high
in which my mind
has taken refuge.
I close my eyes,
even though I don’t need to,
just to feel the wind dance
between my fingers,
under my arms,
and up my spine
until it pirouettes around my head
so many times
that the aroma of the ocean
takes me even higher.
There’s nothing I want more
than to have this more often than
once-in-a-blue-moon.
Earlier today
I carved my name in these grains,
through the damp, tired, diligent earth
that never ceases to trail behind.
I etched it ever-so-quickly,
ever-so-deeply,
with merit.
They washed me away.
They splashed my scars,
they showered my skin,
they dove into my vessels
until they could drag every piece of me
into the deep blue.
Yes,
they washed me away,
but they lifted my chains in doing so,
and here I stand in the darkness,
arms open wide,
face to the sky,
life in my chest.

This is what they call freedom.

Erasing me
and replacing me
are two entirely
different ideas.

One
has been proven very easy.

The other
cannot be done.

It's after you've fallen
time after time
from a short wingspan
and a weak leap,
when suddenly one day
your flap grows strong
and the air beneath you
defies gravity,
when you yell behind
at the top of your lungs,
"Look, you guys!
I'm finally flying!"
that,
with a brief glance
and confusion in your eyes,
the silence overtakes you,

because there's no longer anyone there.

A  polished,  old  inkwell  sits  spritely  stag,
ready  to  give­  everything  it  knows.
Its  blood  breathes  brilliant  carving­s  of  words,
its  sight  blinded  to  the  next  encounter.

The­  tip  of  a  quill  c h i p s  a w a y  a t  i t s  h e a r t,
but  it  never  b
                           l
                             e
                               e
                                 d
                                    s where  it  shan't,
And  even  though  it's  shattered  before­,
there's  nothing  a  little  mending  won't  fix.
In  bustling  lives  we  often  forget
what we're handed is simply a privilege,
and  where  there's  give,  there's  take,  inevitably­
it's  easy  to  cleverly  take  for  granted.

Consistently  s l o w  from  brim  to  bottom
but  as  long  as  you  keep  dipping ­ your  phrases,
you  must  remember  that
eventually
what's­  e                                                            d.
               m                                                     e
                  p                                        ­       l
                    t                                      ­    l
                      y                                  i
                      will  need  to  be  **f

My iPod serenades me softly,
vibrating into my back,
up to my eardrums,
and around my head,
but I don’t hear it.

The steering wheel strums
the chords of sweet memories
beneath my palms
as though I can stroke them
between my fingertips.

I stare at the road before me,
but it is left unseen.
Point A to point B
is a miracle,
point A too difficult to leave.

Take a piece of my heart with you when you go,
and I’ll put you in its place.
I’ll keep it well protected with this shield
we’ve formed so slowly.
Put down your swords, and dry your tears,
for the best is yet to come.
Take a piece of my heart with you when you go,
and I’ll never leave your side.

Forever, we are full.

At a twisted hill and halt
a twinkle on my wrist
begins,
“Our friendship,
beautifully infinite…”
We’ve yet to write the rest.

If I could touch the glow with the tip of my finger,
If I could wrap my arms around its eminent gaze,
If I could define its home on the edge of the horizon
in bathing puddles of purple-pink haze,
If I could run so fast that I’m sprinkled in mist
of passionate fires of elegant breeze
that spray from gigantic, white marshmallow puffs…
these clunking feet may fall to their knees.

Kiss me with summer,
a sunset tease.
Clothe me in musings,
a sunset pleased.



There’s nothing
quite so exhilarating.

I still wake up
in the middle of the night
from nightmare
after nightmare
of your unbeating heart,
and every time
that I wish I could speak
to the demons
that leave you breathless,
my sweating soul
sinks with gravity,
and fear sews shut
my lips.

Hold my binding,
run fingers through my pages.
Title-less,
author-less,
I'm blank and ominous,
Empty
only because
my ink is invisible.

Did you ever wonder
why you never saw me when the stars were lit,
or when black framed the crescent of an ivory echo,
and nocturnal critters sang to the sky?

Did you ever wonder
if the sparkle in my eye was actually the diamond
I secretly kept to fool those with light
that could reflect from their smile?

Did you ever wonder
why the laugh in my throat reverberated
with fallacy and fear and coercion and confusion
until my mind believed it true?

Did you ever notice
that I wasn’t really around until six months ago or so?
Do you know why?
Do you even notice it
here and there still?

Replace-ability and invisibility:
the top two qualities of an introvert.

Did you know
that I was dead,
and there’s piece I couldn’t revive,
and that piece can eat me alive,
but my power won’t let it?
Did you know
it crawls under my skin,
and the itch can be too much,
so I scratch until I bleed,
and I spill out all of me?

Sometimes,
we’re not “just tired.”
Sometimes,
socialization equals solitude.

So,
we drive home to the beat
of a soft, piano-covered ballad
on repeat
and repeat
and repeat
and repeat,
just to let the musing sink in,
until a single, meaningless, unprovoked tear
comforts our cheek
in a cozy, embracing blanket.
And when we reach home’s quiet hello,
the only solution
is to bathe in the silence,
let its aroma fill each crevice,
let it inject into our veins,
let us breathe its sweet clarity
until the world turns right-side-up.

Only then
have we filled again.
Only then
can you hear us.

When your heart explodes,
and your vessels burst,
and your brain caves in,
and your muscles itch,
when your lips overflow,
and your words under-praise,
and your neurons exhaust,
and your tolerance stops,
and you catch your breath
from your latest sprint,
a failed endeavor between you
and your mind,
you realize arrogance
in every complaint
proves an embarrassing case
of losing yourself.

I don't care
how many times
you reassure,
I will still think
there's something
wrong
with me.

Words are trivial.

A wooden gazebo
with flakes of paint stain beginning to chip
into thick, suffocating air
lay lonely and leering
at its reflection in my car’s royal blue smile.
A stop sign.

It must have been nearly zero degrees out that day,
but my pupils only focused
on the porch swing that hung from the gazebo’s ceiling.
A hook’s mighty grip and a chain’s sturdy strength
carried a gorgeously carved, masterpiece lounge
fit for a relaxing day.
The way it lay peacefully sleeping
but ready to fly
reminded me of the one we had a long time ago,
when my brothers and I would swing as though
we were on a playground,
pumping our legs until our path made a semi-circle.
It’s a wonder we never broke the thing clear off the porch –
or our bones –
in the process.
I can still hear the clunking of the chains
as the swing glided back and forth with severe speed,
but, God, was it exhilarating!
In retrospect,
everything is so simple when you’re five years old,
even the nights you spent spilling tears on your pillow
because someone called you words you didn’t understand.
Fear is easy.
Fighting back is a journey.

Through the years
life starts to peck at you with its long, sharp beak,
and its bright red feathers look like fire in the midst,
and it will break you.
And then it will break you
again,
and again,
and again,
and it keeps pressing “repeat”  as it pleases for the rest of your earthly existence,
and pretty soon you have to make the choice.
Will you surrender?
Will you fight?
Will you fasten a heavy shield over your heart?
Will you grow?
Will you win?
Will you live selfishly alone?
Will you trust?
Will you see?
Will your thoughts drown in lies?
Will you explore your own self beyond fathoms deep?
Will you become stoic to all of it?

I’d give anything to have one day back on that swing and its simplicity,
where becoming the next Michelle Kwan seemed like a logical career goal,
and the only mistaken assumption of me
was that the pink Power Ranger was my favorite.
Assuming the worst of someone
without considering or knowing
their present self
is like personally handing them the right
to become your villain,
regardless of their actual original intentions.
I refuse to be that villain.
I don’t exist to hurt you,
nor am I going to continue my attempts to please everyone
when that’s impossible.
Doing what is right for yourself isn’t always selfish.
Sometimes, it’s all you can do to keep going.

Keep me going.
I’ve forgotten how to figure myself out.

I guess I should start driving again.

If there
is a word
for
complete terror,
utter confusion,
unmistakable infuriation,
and stereotypical sadness...
please teach it to me,
because I'd like to know
how I'm feeling.

Last night
on a long drive home
at another sluggish traffic light,
screaming, “RED, RED, RED,”
my eyes lifted a few inches
to the negative space above it.
Odd how we call that negative space, isn’t it?
I wouldn’t bond sparkling glimmers of light against a midnight-colored canvas
with a word like “negative.”
Hopeful, inspiring, uplifting?
Yes.
Negative?
No.
Negative is the degree that’s been taking my breath away
the moment my skin greets the outdoor atmosphere these days.
But against this darkness that is night
I was blessed with the spectacle
of a meteor’s birth and death.
I’ve seen them before,
but never has one been so relatively slow,
encapsulating its residence in a close, fiery hue,
gliding along its path with a firework’s essence
so much that I could almost hear the crackling.
What lasted for a second
lasted for hours.
Funny how something that insignificant can stun you
so that you don’t notice the traffic light’s change in demeanor
to a quiet, green whisper.
How’d that old song go?
“Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket,
Never let it fade away.”
But what’s the point of saving your glow
for the perfect moment
if it stays so secretly hidden?
Aren’t we all just one of these stars,
a life that seems so long,
but too brief,
against the canvas of our entire universe?
Why should I save my light for a rainy day
when I can let the rainy day reignite me?
Depriving my light of oxygen would only make it dwindle,
and I’m not ready to fade into the darkness.
The struggles pour my fuel.
The hardships strike my match.
The triumphs fan my flame.

The pedal gives into the force of my foot
as my right eyebrow arches,
and the corners of my lips turn slightly upward.
I can’t help but feel something kindle in my chest.

Watch me fly.
Watch me fall.
Watch me breathe.
Watch me burn.

…And eventually,
watch me fade in freedom.

Did I miss something here?
Did I misunderstand?
Was the sound of my presence too high pitched for your ears?
Did I squeeze too hard when embracing your face?
Was the glimmer in my eye too bright for your retina?
Did my hands form blades as they ran down your back?
Was my love a slap across your perfectly structured cheek?
Did my legs turn to sand paper as they intertwined with yours?
Did they slowly gnaw away at your caged in comfort zone?
Was there poison on my lips?
Was it a slow, steady venom?
Did it drip to my chin?
Did you taste it in my kiss?
Did it sting when I accepted everything you are?

Hand me that dagger.
Let me pierce your pulsing heart.
It’d make a lot more sense.
You could easily write me off
with all of the rest.

Burn me.

Can anyone tell me why I let myself live in this?
Am I stuck in a room with no windows or doors?
I used to bang on the walls with bruises on fists
over tattooed wrists and faded scars
that led to a hole in my chest
that I filled with love for myself.
“Love for myself”:
You probably think that sounds conceited,
right?
But in all truth, it is the bitter opposite.
I didn’t need any of you to save me.
I figured it out on my own,
like I always do.
The fight in my gut emerged beyond skin,
but I was never good enough here.
I will never be good enough here.
I spend my weeks on a seesaw
between the highest praise and the lowest blows.
Every word that takes off from my lips
must turn and tumble in flight before reaching your ears.
You hear me. You don’t listen.
You twist me. You don’t illuminate.

No, I am not like a daughter to you,
and if you were my mother,
I would have disowned you long ago.
In fact, you really don’t know **** about me,
because I don’t want you to.
Too many people try to tell me how to live,
as though I haven’t come to learn what is best for myself.
I think,
as someone who used to fantasize about her own death
but has overcome that obstacle
and must continue to work to keep that fight alive in herself
every
****
minute
of her existence,
I have the right to write you off as an imbecile to my life.
You don’t own me.
You don’t know me.
You don’t even see me.

I ripped away the heart sewn tightly to my sleeve a while ago
and placed it in a treasure chest
kept in a safe haven to which few hold the key.
I hold the key.
But I don’t go there often.
You see, I never really get the chance.
I just want the chance,
just a little bit of time
to hear the quiet hum of a life reformed,
to stop and feel the breath in my chest,
to feel each lung fill to the brim,
and picture it nourishing every inch of my body
as I press the “release” button.
Can I press the “release” button?
Can I close my eyes and be…
just be, not do.
Can I whisper my desires to the wind that moves around me?
Can we tell secrets of our confusion,
our struggles,
our victories?
Can I reside to the treasure chest,
simply to fill back up?
“E” is for empty.

I was designed differently than you.
I wasn’t made for this.

I never really let myself look back at it,
you know, since I transformed into this person,
since my heart relearned its beat,
and my eyes regained their sight,
and my mouth relearned a speech that could stand up for
the brain that's had to muster every ounce of confusion,
every spec of pain,
every seed of anger,
and release it until the look in my tearless and fearless eyes
gained light again.
I never wanted to lose you.
I just had to if I wanted to come back from the dead,
from the grave I made in my hollow bed,
formed with baby green sheets and a pillow for my headstone.
That was your choice.
I just walked away from a world that would never care.

Sometimes... I just really hate when you're the inspiration behind
the fingertips clicking on the keyboard,
when you're the reason why I let myself bleed into a poem,
when you're the motive in a desperate attempt for me to have something for myself.
And then I remember... that's how I escape the way I'd wrap
around your conniving little finger until it turned to blade.
I always find it interesting to see how fleeting my existence can be.
It's like a game, isn't it?
The drunken texts, the awkwardly un-awkward hugs, the hellos and goodbyes
that turn into absolutely nothing.
It's funny how I'm the one who can be normal.
And honest.

The hardest thing I've ever had to do is accept that you aren't you,
that almost everything you do is a charade,
you parade about wanting pity and remorse,
you love the sadness as much as you hate it,
you hate the deception as much as you crave it,
and I simply cannot do that.

Maybe I haven't fully accepted it yet.

I wonder when I'll be invisible again.

Pin my arms to their furthest range,
so they’ll forever outstretch to everyone else.
Strum me unendingly. Listen to the hum.
I always do what’s asked.
I can’t wait for the day my insides tear
to the point of steady separation.
Then maybe they’ll stop pulling at me,
and I can tug at my own heart strings.

Are my eyes closed,
or is the atmosphere black?
After the hundredth collapse,
I’m back on my feet,
no crutch to lean to
or hand to hold.
The sensation of each heel strike,
each toe press the floor,
could delay to a hole,
for all I know.
Unsure and unsafe,
Undone and unreal,
I don’t see the strength
they see in me.
So, sometimes I wonder,
Should I stop moving forward?
Is this aimless?
Direction? -
I have none of that.
Still I keep going
in hope that eventually
my fingers will find
the light switch.

The light knocking
on my window
from the rain's tiny fist
may be the single,
most relaxing,
contemplative sound
in Mother Earth's
long and sobering life.

My eyes are the series of letters you skim,
My hands are miniature font that stares miss.
My skin is a struggle for external boldness.
My mind is a simple afterthought.
My muscles recount lifetimes of information,
each tendon a lesson that presses me forward.
My organs hold treasures of memory jewels,
my vessels an account of their worth.
My legs are the diction of unknown adventures.
My smile is their punctuation and grammar.
My heart is a fact of lesser importance,
my ink its wounded citation.

I’m always here if you should need,
but the few who do so quickly forget.
Someday, my lines will be embraced in the full
and delicately handled with interest.
Read between, above, beneath,
Analyze every washed-out curve.
Study my circles, my twists, my ridges,
and make me into a book.

Another middle-of-the-night charade,
a delicate pas de deux with my bed sheets.
I forced my eyes open,
for the images on their lids
became too much
for the heart lodged in my throat
to handle,
choking,
strangling.
Let me breathe.
I'll surrender to the night,
to the slow passing of time.
Just let my lungs take in clean air
And press out every image I just witnessed.
My eyes are softly drifting again,
so shake me awake,
and give me a fight,
for fear of falling back asleep.

Take my hand,
and I’ll take theirs.
Let me drink the strength I need
to soak their tears away.
Into my veins may every drop go,
straight to the pulsing muscle
that keeps my skin from greying,
pumping out to every crevice of my body,
piercing every cell.
Bruise my flesh,
and puncture my pride,
as long as I can breathe
vitality into them,
just to keep their eyes alive
and open to a vastly better world.
Take away what I have known,
for they don’t need to endure
the shallow, harsh, sliest of demons
bewitching the brightness ahead.
Stab me.
Fool me.
Use me.
**** me.

Just never let them see it.

It's yet another day
for yet another year
to ban another tear
from the contours of my cheek,
And yet another fray
from yet another war
for the dagger through my core,
just wanting to be bleak.

And every day
I make myself happy.
And everyday
I swallow the weak.

Today is no different.
Here's to pressing on,
round three.

Somehow,
this place brings about a complacency
that isn’t familiar to my brain,
a delicate calmness,
beaming ever-so-softly
that the slightest abstraction
from this consistently inconsistent dwelling
will shift my mind to a place undesired.
I need this silence.
And by silence,
I mean the swishing of a small waterfall a few feet away,
the peck of a duck as its feathers are cleaned,
the splash of these creatures under the sunset,
the quiet buzz of the street nearby,
the flutter of a bird in the distance,
and the hum of an overhead airplane.
A breeze lightly runs its fingers through my hair,
and the rustling of the leaves in the trees
whispers,
“You are at peace here.”

They say
honesty is the best policy.

I say
honesty is an art
that is nearly extinct to our culture.

Ignorance isn't bliss,

*******.

Selective hearing
and meaningless phrases,
Controlling degrees
of each minute detail,
Praise with obsession,
shamelessly stab –
Just give this some ease,
and throw me away.

Swollen eye sockets,
all work and no sleep,
Ten seconds of rest
before dawn comes again,
Egotistical nature
slashing inspiration -
See ya, I quit,
I only do wrong.

Bag my head,
and cut only a slit for my lungs to breathe.
Maybe purposely blinding myself
will ****** the sights that remind me.

You think I don't know
what it's like to hate someone
but miss them with everything inside of you
and realize that you don't actually hate them at all?
You think I don't understand the concept
of a contradicted soul?
But, you see,
the difference between me and you
is that the person I miss is worth so much more
than I think he'll ever understand,
and, if I had to,
I'd spend the rest of my life convincing him so.
But that will never happen,
since I'm not really here.

She looked at me,
so matter-of-fact-ly,
and the words came tumbling out with ease –
that if I don’t have a man in my life by age 30,
my life will surely be miserable. –
What has this world done to us?
Where is our independence?
These are the saddest words I’ve ever heard a child utter,
not because they are true,
but because she believes they are.

I don't want you to tell me I'm hot.
I just want you to care.

I don't want you to talk about my body.
I just want you to see inside.

I don't want to hear about her.
I just want to be comfortable again.

I don't want you to take advantage.
I just want you to miss me.

In this free fall
floating around me
is nothing but what has been
and what could be.
A thousand words I never said
are enticing whispers in my ear.
Too many screamers crying,
“You are worthless!”
But my soul bears a strong shield.
They can’t get to my heart anymore;
I know my worth.
The lies swirl in the mist around me,
a cloudy gaze of nevermore.
And I’m just comfortable in this free fall
to a place I don’t know.
So wherever this takes me,
can it please be adventurous?
I need some of that in my life,
a spontaneous mix of alive and thrilling.
So, when I land,
let’s just run.
Never stop and don’t look back
unless I run head on to past.
What am I supposed to face right now?
Where are you taking me?
I ache for the moment I land on two feet
and dash to the day of knowledge.

What is this place
that I can't seem to breathe,
like all natural reflexes in my body
undo themselves,
leaving me shivering?
It is fearsomely familiar.
Is my heart still pumping?
How am I still standing?
Have I met you before?
Can you see me?

This world is so frantic
that in a blink of an eye
your sights have transformed.
A face blurs as you pass.
The storms come and go.
Names are lost in your mind
to the expressions they were once fleetingly attached to.
Every second is a mere breath we take for granted,
each step only taken with blinders to our destination.

Sometimes I think we all miss
the little things that ‘liven us.
We don’t stop to just take in our visions.
This I challenge you.
Stand, just to feel the wind between your fingertips.
Walk aimlessly while a light drizzle splashes your skin.
Look to the sky, close your eyes, and bathe in the sunlight.
Stop on a crowded street corner,
and be amazed at each individual life around you –
Everyone has a story to tell… or one to hide.
Understand that. –
Take a moment to breathe the air around you,
and be grateful for it.
Appreciate the scent of a flower in passing.
Watch the purples, pinks, yellows, and blues dance with one another
as the sun falls asleep on the horizon.
Don’t let your sight fall short of what your eyes are bringing to you.
There’s so much more to life than,
well,
your life.

You see my thoughts as I do.
And before I get a chance to shout them to the world,
there you are, beating my declaration,
claiming your own.

Your eyes see right through me,
to the brick lain so heavily in cement.
Your breath is a tornado.
Your gaze is its storm.

Just as I’m beginning to think I have some grip on this world,
that I can make a difference,
that my life is a significant, precious jewel
so rare that even the richest of men wouldn’t waste me…
I see you again.
And I see a man so in tune with his talents,
yet so lost in them.
And everything else.

Stop reading my mind.
Stop understanding me.
Stop knowing me.

Because you don’t know me.
I convince myself of this over and over
until the words in my brain are moving so fast
that even I get dizzy
and must rest my weary eyes
‘til the morning sun evaporates every leftover
drop of dew that may have tainted my soil.

Until the clouds come again, my friend,
I have conquered my soul.

Dry your eyes, dear,
for your tears are wasted on the untrue.
We can’t see your gorgeous smile
behind the salt.
The illumination you exude
is contagious.

If I would have done it,
would you have felt guilty?

If I would have done it,
would you have really even cared?

If I would have done it,
would you have mourned my life in silence?

If I would have done it,
would you have used it for your own attention?

If I would have done it,
would you have cried?

If I would have done it,
would you have come to say good-bye?

If I would have done it,
who would you be today?

I woke up today
feeling depressed
for the first time in months
simply because it's so easy
for you to make me invisible again.

Did nothing I wrote matter?
Am I just some game for you to play
when you get bored?

I took my heart,
sliced in open,
and laid it right in front of you,
trying to be as honest as I could be.

What
the
****
do
you
want
from
me

I can't give you any more
than I've already given.
If you want the walls to break down,
then prove to me I should.

And if you want to use me,
then *******.

I will be seen.
I will be heard.

If I spilled the secrets I knew about you,
I could turn your world up-side-down,
And sometimes I think
that's exactly what you deserve.

It’s sad, I think,
to realize this -
again -
as an adult,
that you can never be sure
who to trust.
Because you can never be sure who will betray you
or play you
or just not care.
People
who are supposed to be a good friends.
For all they know,
you could be alone in your room
with a knife to your wrist again.
You’re not.
But they don’t care regardless.
Your need for advice doesn’t concern them,
nor your loss of sanity.

I guess you’re never too old
to find out
who your real friends are.

You make my insides tumble within me.
You make that lump lodge into my throat
so I can barely speak or breathe.
You make my brain turn to
a puddle of melted ice,
waiting to be vaporized into thin air.
You make my eyes go cloudy
so that I am nearly blind.
You make this cool interior implode.
You make my sanity run a marathon
so fast I'll never catch up.
You make me crazy.
And I can't decide if this is good or bad.

There's a reason I've built my walls so high.
Are you trying to break them down,
Or are you trying to break me down?

when I sleep, I
hear sounds of crashing
and war
to the steady, beating

d*** beneath my breast.
oh, the fear

you instill and the
outrage I feel
undo me.

whispers in
ash-covered bullets of sweat scream
nonsense.
thinking is death.

free me.
reach out.
our moments are painfully slow.
make up your

mind,
e**ntangling me.

I hear a slight buzzing through the walls
as the tips of my fingers click against the keyboard.
Now and then a door crashes open
to the sound of end-of-the-year chatter
just before footsteps fade into another shatter.
But all I do is silently lie here,
reminiscing about the four years I’ve spent
in the building that lies below.
This is where I grew up.

No,
I did not spend my childhood roaming these halls,
nor did I begin the tricks of my trade,
but this is where a naïve 17-year-old girl
was carved into a woman of strength.
This is where I made myself who I am,
and this is where I struggled the whole way,
having nothing to do with a single class period
spent here.

And now as the rain begins to pour above,
slowly leaking into the cracks of these concrete walls
similar to the scars I carry inside my chest,
I am proud that they are symbols of my past,
For a scar is a wound that has healed
but simply left a mark behind.

The marks from these puddles never seem to fade,
so we avoid them.
We do not write our deepest thoughts there,
because they just get washed away.
I think I avoid the scars
for fear of them reopening
and myself washing with it.

This is the place where I was given life.
This is where it was taken away.
And this is where I fought to retrieve it.

As much as I hate this place,
as many good memories are harbored here
that I don’t let myself think of,
as many painful memories I've had to forgive,
as many selfish memories I’ve had to overcome…
I still think I’ll miss it when I’m gone.

Cool, wet ringlets form in my hair,
Sweet aroma of precipitation.
Eyes wide open to a world widely shut,
All I can hear is its splashing
against the warm, solid grass
and the blacktop beneath my running feet.
Such a vast and beautiful place this is.
So, I halt to throw out my arms,
close my eyes,
and lay my head back
to just feel...
To feel the crash against my skin,
to feel the sun and rain collide
to feel the breath of the clouds surround me,
to feel fully alive.