The destiny of all
Is not equal
And similar
We are pleased
With this brief moment

This morning I watched a sunrise
and you were right beside me
but hundreds of miles away,
Will you stop kidnapping my thoughts?
All you have to do is ask
and I'll gladly give them away.

You're such a thief of my dreams.
Reaching out and taking
Something that's already free.
All I ask is that you keep on reaching
And I'll hand it all over to you...
Every broken piece of me.

Here's a thought for you to steal,
Let's fog up the windows,
Pretend like we're seventeen.
The only difference now is,
We both have years of experience
And tricks up our sleeves.

What makes you,
Each morning,
Reach for the words

Flown through ether
Across the ocean?

She feeds my soul

For this day
I cannot say
If I was sad
Or I was glad
I had anger
And I was a stranger
To my former self
I lost myself
Who am I?
But a monster in your eye

My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.