Don’ t tell me how to feel

because neither one of us are in charge

of my heart

or it’s rationale.


There’s no bigger dictator

than the one that’s inside of me.


When it pulls the strings,

and calls the shots,

my body pulls forward

with this boulder of emotion

and my shoulders start caving

as I start to drag my feet.


When the whistle blows

I roll my eyes,

at this foolish ruler…


A small ***** that dreams big.


Who does it think it is?


When will it learn?


And when will it stop making me


do it’s ***** work?

I am a dot on Seurat’s canvas.

You told me that I wouldn’t be respected if I used Times New Roman, well maybe I don’t write to be respected. Maybe I write in Times New Roman because I like to read in it.

I could write in Wingdings. Would that make you happy? Would that make me stand out?

I don’t write with words I don’t understand and I don’t embellish nature to sounds pretty. Times New Roman isn’t trying to impress anybody and neither am I.

I am writing about what is real and I am writing about how I feel and I don’t need your opinion and I don’t want to hear your spiel.

Did that make me stand out?

The walls of your soul that you
  Toil away building;
The windows are dark and the
  Bricks are unyielding...

( Hate, with a hammer, cracks the wall;
   But Love, with a whisper, makes it fall. )

How many times have I told you, Believe?
And then will you learn how to truly Receive.
  For giving is getting -- these two are the same;
  And living is learning to dance in the rain.

Halcyon grass in absent wind;
your conscience drifts away.

Alone, you watch the rising tide;
above, it ties you in.

Lost, lost, lost;
as you were, among the reeds...

They say you hurt
The ones you love
The most.
I wonder how true
That must be.

I can't even bear to think
Of hurting you.
Yet you give out hurt
Like its a hobby.

With all the pain
You've put me through
You must love me
More than I could ever
Love you.

Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing
How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead, and how
In the grave all love shall sleep:
Love is aweary now.