In a world where a hold is placed on perspective, and accomplishment is marked by material things.
Never lose your inner child.
In a world where everyone grows up and forgets the things that make them happiest, never lose your inner child.
In a world where momentarily replaces promise and devotion.
Don't forget that you hold the crayons of your soul.
You can color inside or outside the lines.
In a world where everything that truly makes you smile is frowned upon.
Don't ever lose yourself.
Just be you

Through perfect imperfections
Are we able to find evolution.
The flaws we face on a everyday basis
Seen through our own eyes as love.
A ballast on which we see each other.
Without fear, without hesitation.
I see you, not just what you display
But the eternal way that you see yourself.
Finding my reflection through yours.
Ingesting you with each and every stare.
Born again in perspective.
Yours and yours alone.
Open hearted in an open end expression through perfect imperfection.
Only then can both of our worlds change.
Only then can we truly find ourselves.
The reflection of each others eyes

And when she began to speak
I opened her mouth just wide enough to look inside.
Stretching her mouth as wide as I could get it without causing pain.
I looked around directing her head in the light.
Highlighting everything I couldn't see.
And when I let go she asked what all of that was for.
With rose eyebrows I replied the person I met a couple of years ago

It never seems the right time.
Watching night pursue the day.
That one light spread across a blanket.
That one rebellious soul that sees all but never says a word.
You shy away, but still I chase.
Wandering about until it gets dark enough to truly see you.
There I wait, knowing only persistence

I am not sure if you enjoy stew or not. But it's one of my favorite things.
You take some of your favorite meat and bring it to a simmer, along with a couple vegetables and a couple seasonings.
Chopped up nice in a good chicken or beef broth. coming together to make something new. Made thick with a little water, a little flour.
Especially on cold days. You can't go wrong with A beef or vegetable stew. Though there is no wrong or right time to eat a good stew.
There really isn't a recipe you can follow unless there is one you really just want to try. I mean it's a stew come on and live a little. That's why it's one of my favorite foods. The amount of creativity and what you can add to it.
Today I'd like you to try one.
I want you to take some of your one of a kindness and a couple of smiles. Season them with a little of the way you inspire those around you. A couple of your laughs and smiles and throw it in this crockpot that we call life. And
If you feel like sharing I'll bring a spoon and eat from the bowl of your hands

Of all things sentimental.
She came through the door wearing a suit of armor.
The door closed behind her with a rattle and tick of swaying arms.
With rust around her eyes she longed to be melted down.
A drop left in her can of oil.
The metal on her chest plate dull, full of dents.
She explained that her heart stopped working.
That the gears and springs just won't turn.
With a screwdriver jammed in the middle and a bolt or two missing.
I heard the man behind the counter say that he could repair it but she too insisted in a louder voice.
Its not worth the trouble, that she'd rather be melted down.
Too much time has passed, she wants to finally feel the warmth of something genuine.
I watched her as she walked into the welder's shop.
Some people laughed. Others wore a look of wrinkled eyebrows.
Revealing their defect. Noses turnt sharp in the air.
Beauty comes in all shapes and form.
A beautiful shape molded into tin to protect how precious she was.
Dings and dents from the rocks they'd throw.
The world is a cruel place.
Her operator forgetting her name, A reflection of alzheimer's not done intentionally.
The damage of watching everything around you slowly change.
The insecurities of home no longer being home.
She pierced a hole over her heart with a screwdriver.
Jamming the gears. Causing nuts bolts and springs to bounce everywhere in a buildup of steam.
Rust composites in the duct of her eyes.
I watched her walk through the door.
Making brief eye contact before walking through the door myself.
When I walked in there was no sign of her.
Just the man behind the counter setting out a new watch stained in rust

I was a shirt filed with straw and rags.
Pants that hang loose. Jeans cuffed pinned uncomfortably.
Nothing to think of; a hat filled with straw.
The inability to walk. Pinned to a board.
Hickory oak.
Chest disproportionate to a small waist.
Sleeves flung in the wind.
Left standing still; a face motionless.
Pinned to hickory oak.
A shadow left in an empty field, the boundaries of a checkerboard shirt.
The insecurity of straw hands.
Pickett fences to the feet of crows,
Still she'd visit often.
Distance cut short by dark heavy wings.
She'd caw in my silence,
Not knowing the ability to smile I stood against purpose.
She refused to run, poking fun at my hat.
The clothes that hung loosely in the wind, scurf tied tightly around my neck.
Feeling her ***** the strings of my chest.
Strands of straw filled by her need to find a home.
Was there anything there at all before that moment.
Becoming shelter to the way she pried.