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By the highway oasis,
where an Acacia once stood,
is a Willow
that doesn’t belong.

Don’t ask Why.
my hands will be full
of callouses,

with wrinkles,
like ripples
in time.

The skin
will flake and dry,
and I
will give thanks
as I sleep.

I don't know my ideal future, but I hope it will be judged by these simplest of variables.
21 years and 9 months;
that's how long it took
for me to realize
that every morning
we all have 2 choices:

Open our eyes slowly
or open them quickly,

and it was always about attitude.

The first
is a drug.

Sheets pull us in
as if they were
an injection,
an infection,
holding us captive
in a warmth
that can only be temporary.

The second
is freedom.

A quick flash of light
sings our eyes awake,
like a shout,
like a shake,
letting go of the night
in a shotgun moment
as the first breath of air.

Of the two,
I wish to be the latter.
It's a nuisance to leave dancing to chance
and to sit by and sigh a sigh of mild high relief.
It's brief, but for a moment there's courage
and the courage builds a bridge.

But "look out," comes a shout
from seemingly miles away
and your gaze blazes below.
There's a troll beneath you.

It wields a shield made of lies
and a club made of fear and dead wishes.
Make it swim with the fishes.
Silent let it be, and cross the bridge.

Beyond the concrete dance floor,
ignore the three harpies' bait.
Don't wait. It's not too late
to quicken your pace.

Tread carefully. Don't be lured
by the drunken eyes,
or the devilishly devilish propaganda
for *** on their clothing and skin,
because it will hurt in the long run.

Head towards the sundress,
and the toga dancing next to it.
They're friends of yours,
but not yet.

So don't repress your desire to dance.
Take your chances.
Hey there, little light bulb.
Look beneath your sunny glow.
There lie a dozen empty flower pots
filled with seeds waiting to grow.

Hey there, little light bulb.
Stay lit, please don't turn off.
You're the life of the empty flower pots
and for their seeds you're warm enough.

Hey there little light bulb.
You've got quite a job to do.
Give those seedlings energy
and bring plants to life anew.

Hey there, little light bulb,
did you see that little sprout?
It's because of your great energy
that this sprout could come on out.

Hey there, little light bulb,
be proud of what you've done.
You've made the first sprouts rise
and their journey's just begun.

Hey there, little light bulb.
I know you're getting tired,
but look at all the growing plants!
It's something to be admired.

Hey there, little light bulb.
I'm sad you died today,
but in place of your sweet energy
are a thousand trees to stay.

By: Kevin Kurt Nepomuceno
We are to be the light for others. To support them and to give others the means to grow. We have a job to do, and it's worth the effort. There are times we may want to give in, but we just have to keep going. When it's all over, we live on in those we touch in our lives. It's our responsibility and honor to be like a little light bulb.
The spirals swirl
not one the same
for every finger
and every name.

in skin and lines
on appendages
that reach and pine
to belong
in a crowded world
where hands break
and fingers curl.

Deliver me
from this rusted space.
Take my soul,
leave not a trace.

Heaven? Hell?
They're all the same.
Can't you tell?

The world will turn
even when we're gone.
The moon will rise
just as the sun.

Our fingerprints
will disappear.
Flesh and blood
crimson to clear,
just as this
the world will fade
from dust to dust,
the one fair trade.

Take not then
this life for death
take instead
my gentle breath.

Teach me then
to breath deep and long
to fill my lungs
and make them strong,
to brush my fingers
on another's tips
and learn to love
by touching lips;

for when I die
and lifeless lay
upon the ground,
no words to say,
at least then
I'll have lived a life.
I'd have learned to love
through pain and strife.
Give me rest.
The kind of slumber
that toddlers protest during naptime
but succumb to with a stream of drool
on their rested faces;
the kind of slumber
that enables my grandmother
to nap in a rocking chair
with a book teetering on the edge of her lap,
the sort of sleep
that wakes me up
an hour before the morning trumpets blast;

give me that,

because I'm tired
of the sheets clutching on to me
like handcuffs
engraved on criminal wrists.
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