A dark, wispy being
That flutters from here to there.
Captures moments full of memory,
In paper for one to stare.

He uses his wispy hands,
And snatches these moments.
Whether as small as a grain of sand,
Or as huge as the wide lands.

He’s obsessed with them,
These moments.
For him, they’re like gems.
If not collected, they’ll be lost in the torrent
And forever be slipping past his hem.

These moments have power,
That only he understand
The strong ones bellow louder,
When held in his hands.
The small ones are like powder.
Alone, they cannot stand.

If you made some with him,
These moments, I mean.
Then beware: he’ll trim and skim
Then put them on paper to be seen.

i think we got it wrong
when we think of strong

for its not a mind
that thinks of me and mine

or controlled
by need or greed

its one thats gone inside
and dissolved all internal needs
and turns towards the world
with hearts and hands of kind

I'm (not) stupid,
I am (not) a fool,
I'm (not) only useful to you,
I'll never (not) be useful to anyone.

If we're being honest,
Not every day is a good one,
You can't make 'em all good,
Otherwise none would be good enough.

Sometimes you just can't fix a broken day,
You just have to take a deep breath and go to bed,
You've got all of tomorrow left.