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

maybe
she doesn’t know
who she is
because
all of her childhood
she was handling
the weight
of being someone else
while neglecting
the weight
of becoming herself.

i write to describe
the tales of my existence

but not even
an entire language
can put into one’s heart
the essence of experience

for my words
will form their meaning
within the mind of the other
my words are clay between
the readers hands
my writing is the blank page

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.’”

head sinking into the pillow
memories of the day
begin to bleed out
and soak the mattress beneath.
tired sigh releasing
the rubber band from
its finger gun as i
lay my arms down
beside my body.
armor falling down
as the covers are pulled
hiding my wounded body
under a silk shelter
from the enemies of today.

Oh how gruesome is it
That we might stick needles in our body
And cut open our flesh
Stuff ourselves like teddy bears
And douse ourselves in chemicals
Throw our money to the wolves
Who created these grotesque rules
All in the name of consummating their fabricated illusion.

Collector of moments
tethered by time,
picking the fruits of life
for as long as I’m here.

Discovering only
after biting into:
whether sweetness or bitterness
lies on the tongue?

Taken by reverence
Standing in the presence
Of great and ancient beings.

Dressed in vines
Have lived many lives
Firmly rooted in Earth's will.

Upwards they grow
May it be slow
Follow the blueprint beneath.

Bound by the flow
Of nature's ego
Traversing the chasm of time.

i decided to change my hair,
in denial
that was the beginning
of my spiral.

stroking my long hair,
sitting in a leather chair,
pondering why i’m alive,
she asked me ‘why?’
‘it’s just too much’ was my reply.

and when it was over,
and the apron came off,
the girl cutting my hair
told me she felt
that i had a sweet spirit.

it is painful
when you sit high above
yourself, looking down,
and begin to see
the creases of your personality
unfolding before you.
like entire chapters
of a book in which
the pages had been stuck together;
a once incomplete storyline
coming together.
one crack of the spine
and suddenly
newfound pages
are pulled apart
to reveal once hidden,
yet the most intimate,
details of a story.

I found God in the clouds
I found God in the trees
I found God in the birds
I found God in the bees

I found God in your soul
I found God in my art
I found God in your eyes
I found God in my heart.

and maybe love is much simpler than we make it out to be.
maybe it’s not found in the doing, in the pursuing, in the trying.
instead,
maybe love is found in the resting place that is presence.
maybe love is found in the silence that is a listening ear.
maybe love is found in the stillness that is humble acceptance.
maybe love is just..
as you are.

An empty cardboard box
In the two hands of everyone I meet.
A box I never asked for
But a box that’s just for me.

Each one a different color,
A different size, a different shape.
As they form their mental labels
The box is sealed with tape.

Like the last spark from dying embers
Leaving her bed of ashes
Floating up into the dark sky
A droplet of fire
Carried by the currents of wind
Into her next blazing beginning

you wish
to be invisible.
you envy
the very ghosts that
haunt you.

dead inside
though still alive,
you’re halfway there
i suppose.

please just know,
these walls i have built
are only to contain
some very strong storm within.

for these clouds are contagious,
this rain is relentless,
and these winds are destructive.

please just know,
these walls i have built,
serve a great purpose-
one i hope you never
have to realize.

glossy eyes
locked in a
downward gaze,
counting each
passing crack
i step over.

a raging war
in my mind,
a battleground
upon sidewalks,
just trying
somehow
to take cover.

Each morning I rise,
I awaken to a present,
neatly wrapped in sunlight,
and gently laid upon my lap,
awaiting its grand opening.

A parcel of intangibility,
a package of inherent promise,
bound by ribbons of time,
and bestowed to me
upon each new dawn unfolding.

It is the gift I loathe,
its unwrapping I deeply scorn,
never failing to haunt me,
as each morning I’m presented
with the gift I cannot reject.

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.

i like to believe each soul is its own special color
toned by our own unique palette of experiences
and tinted through the unique medley of our hearts.
some colors very similar, most very different, and no two exactly the same.
every color existing as innate necessity within the rainbow of humanity.

sifting through old clothes,
i enter a museum of self.
costumes of my past
hung up on display.
as i touch every fabric,
i’m reminded of each story:
the character,
the cast,
the script,
the stage.
it is the wardrobe of
a washed up actor who was
ever yearning for the applause
of her audience and
the praise of her critics.
all those years she wasted
losing herself in roles,
in the demands of characters,
now collecting dust within a dark closet.

it is called a breaking point because
every cell, every fiber of one’s being
has been gripping so tightly onto
the thread of what it knows to be true.
and when that thread snaps,
the entirety of the person becomes unraveled
in an instant.
a thread that sewed one together over many years:
every moment of experience, a stitch
every belief about oneself, a knot.
its breaking point tears apart the very fabric of one’s identity.
and what, at first, feels unfamiliar & uncomfortable,
is only a return to the very beginning of oneself;
the unentangled person.

reaching out
palm to a holographic hope
dissipating like fog
as my fingers linger
in the air it once permeated.

maybe fantasy only serves its purpose
by not being touched.

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.

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.

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.