Lost in Paris,
But stuck here at home.
Envisioning the cobblestone streets,
Stopping at cafes to escape the heat.
Laughing and smiling in Paris.
The mental trip is a need,
Wanting to be
Lost in Paris.
But stuck here instead,
In Cali.

We are allowing ourselves to be manipulated
by a false narrative of structured thought
that strips us of our natural intuition
to find joy and happiness
in the basic and simple things in life
We are born creative and loving and kind
and that is slowly stolen from us
as we are pushed through an educational system
that programs us into a belief system
of follow a path of repetition to find success in life
We are branded with an artificial
definition of intelligence
these are the important facts
and these are childish whims and hobbies
Do this and don’t do that....

work play
work work play
work work work play
work work work work work play
work work work work work work work work
work work work work work work hard enough
and maybe one day save enough money
and then you can afford a small vacation
and then back to work work work...

know the facts
past the test
find a job and repeat the same thing
over and over and over....
then some where along the line
find someone who is comfortable
with having the bare minimum
of what you are allowed
to believe we deserve
date
****
marry
buy a house
a car
reproduce
and push those offspring
through the same structure of repetition

When and where along the line
did we become so numb and negligent
to think that this is a life worth living for
worth fighting for
and at our very worst moments in history...
worth dying for?  
Nothing about this
is a natural way of living

We are prisoners to a vocabulary
of useless ideologies
that we have built around our own minds...

the caged bird sings
only because we allow it
to see enough of the blue sky
to dream of flight and freedom
and then while it sleeps
we secretly trim its wings
so it can never venture past
the bars of the only home
it has and will ever know...

and this is what we have given up
and continue to give up
our ability to dream
is our ability to do better
to be better
and yet we settle for a life of something less...

There was a time...
The first rhyme
You ever read to me
That time when I,
Once unappreciative,
But that night...
Fell in love with it.
You recited your hurt like art,
A delicate voice,
But with trembling heart.

During those early days of early love.
I always wanted to read along as you read aloud.

And I would've died to be the page you'd slaved upon.
Tears, blood, passion unrivaled like a daring dawn
That fights the night till the day is gone.
Perhaps it was to feel connected to you,
But I began to write my stories too.
I threaded them together painstakingly,
Usually in the lonesome limbos I felt achingly,
Anxiously,
And it took so long to share myself with you.

Did you know you were the first to ever see them?
You always thought I was beautiful.

Once again, you encouraged the fire free.
And this isn't the only sea
You've taught me to sail.
Now I place my work here
With the sheer raw emotion I so dearly make clear.
It is one of the few things I've made mine.
I never said I had talent, but at least I can rhyme!
And now?

Now I write for me.