You know your bed is too comfortable
when it's hard to get up in morning.

You know you love your bed too much
when you don't want to wake up at all.

What does it mean when someone's favorite flower is violets?
Little clusters of dainty purple bloom sprinkled about,
forgotten or unseen by most among vast beds of clover.
Hunting fingers search for four-leafed omens while
deer feast on the rest, leaving room for dandelions their
long silvery necks stretch to take the spotlight, left alone
until impatient lips can blow their prayers into the midday breeze.
But, violets? They manage to survive, away from preying eyes.

Love is felt
or is only said.

And as I sit here alone
in the comfort of my bed
I try not to weep.

I know that love can be felt
through the strength of a hug,
the weight of a kiss, the linger
of skin on skin.

I know this in my heart, and so
does everyone because how
can you recognize it then
when it happens
or doesn't.

And it hasn't to me.
That's why I weep.

Anyone who asks you if they're pretty
will not believe your answer
be it in words.

Look them in the eyes and through them
to the other side and reach
out, touch.

Let every movement with and against them
speak every emotion and
let them feel
your
answer.

Routine -- a dastardly habit fed
to control you, and your mind
give your body a boring rhyme
to dance to and not feel tempted

into the lands of chance and reason
letting you decide when to wake
when or how you take your break
because to trust your dedication is treason

and foolhardy, why they must train
you when to go to bed and when to wake
and of course how you should operate.
Oh all the things to teach your brain

but like bleeding out a poison, time
is always on your side, for nature
she likes things the way they were
your natural rhythm, denying it a crime!

That is her insight, as you sit awake alone
the clock ticking faster than before
the coming day a dreaded chore
your days spent sick now like a precious stone.

How is one supposed to go to sleep at night
when they know what comes with day
the hum drum, daily toil and you left to fray?
This is the story of man's modern plight.

She dyed her hair purple,
though not all of it.
She wanted to keep some of herself.
She didn’t want to erase everything.

She dyed her hair purple,
leaving some of that mousy color.
The purple was violets
like her favorite flower.
She was shy,
but now she would look bold.

She would stand out amongst the clover.

She dyed her hair purple
and bought all new clothes.
She donated much of those
childhood remnants
and took a trip to the thrift store.
She searched through the past,
through the castaways
and found her new image.

She chose how she wanted to look.

She dyed her hair purple
and tried new things.
She went on walks through the woods,
laid in the hammock at night
to watch the stars,
to catch lightning bugs
in the summer,
to draw in the sunlight,
to read in the grass,
write down the stories in her head,
and dare to be herself.

She dyed her hair purple
and kids at school thought she was weird.
But she didn’t care.

She dyed her hair purple
and her parents didn’t like it.
They thought she was going to do bad things.
But she didn’t.

She was a flower child,
a child of the night,
and true to herself.

Sweet juice dripping down your chin
tasting real tomatoes for the first time
Food will never be the same
much less momma's garden.

Butterflies flutter in chaotic, wonderous traffic
and bees make plants vibrate
sweet and bitter scents tantalize the senses
hands eager to get *****.

Momma will show you the ropes
you won't understand much of her words
but you watch her between adventures
chasing faeries between the rows.