the beautiful play of life
is that i am all i will ever truly know and understand,
and everything else that i experience
is an expression of a separate experience,
of which i try to understand
only through the ways in which
i understand my own experience.
so that if i can experience myself and understand myself
in as many ways as possible,
i might become ever closer
to understanding every other expression of experience.
ever seeking to merge myself with the universe at large
and expand myself through infinite understanding.

wincing as memories of the past
cant help but flood my mind,
wanting to forget but
from myself i cannot hide.
a caged mind, an empty heart,
a loaded cannon aimed
toward everyone around me
except the one to blame.
ignoring never worked
the past always lived on,
within the present’s lack of presence
and the feelings of all wrong.
i tried to run to places
far far far away
from all trouble that i knew
but it followed me always.
thats not who i am,
i scream at a starry sky,
that was long ago and
so much time has passed by.
i hear a voice within
whispering my name:
she says very softly,
“widen the narrow frame.
for who you used to be
was just only a beginning
and who you are today
is very far from an ending.
for the you of the past
has made the you today,
so instead of hold regret
you can look back and say
‘i learned to change and
i learned to grow
so in every new day,
new seeds i will sow
and ill focus always on
the me of tomorrow.’”

only when she finally laid down everything
that she had been carrying
between her two hands-
this was when she was able to finally see
the tattered skin
of her palms and
the aching tendons
of her fingers.
only when she finally released the sore grip
that she had molded into
part of her identity-
this was when she was able to finally feel
the freedom she held
within her bones and
the power she held
within her hands.

3 am
my bedroom ceiling
i have memorized
every crack
every bubble
every paint stroke
the image of
3 am
my bedroom ceiling
engraved in my mind

and sometimes it comes a point
where i am laying under a night sky,
staring into a blackness mounting
a million different twinkles of hope
upon a canvas above,
waiting for some kind of movement
to happen suddenly among
the million glimmering miracles,
to catch me by surprise
so that i might wish upon it
some other kind of miracle to happen
upon a canvas below.

when the emptiness pervades
when the fog does not clear
when the incessant doubts
pound like drums in my ear
when the heart is chained
when the shackles are too heavy
when the ground underneath
no longer feels steady
when none of me feels real
when all of me feels contrite
when the feelings i can’t bear…
these are the times i write.