Life - the period between birth and death.

The rising of the Sun comes with the fulness of life; the replenishing of that which was lost.

Just like the spring comes with the green, flowers spring forth, so the beauty of life comes forth, rejuvinating that which was dead.

I've come to realise that life is quite blissful.
I've found out that what we do everyday and what we classify as "normal" is "phenomenal" if you take a closer look.

I've discovered that even if you're not exactly where you would like to be, that doesn't mean that right now life isn't beautiful.

We're constantly surrounded by wonders, but we become insensitive because they come so gracefully and seamlessly.

Have you ever thought of how fascinating, the air we breath in and out? Do you think before you breath? You don't right? It just happens. Isn't it amazing?

Every breath and every moment that's creating the opportunity for you to be alive, is a miracle, that's the beauty of life.

I've also seen that, there's no ordinary and extraordinary moment. All i see is beauty everywhere.

If you understand this, you can look at ordinary objects and find beauty in it's existence.

If you understand this, you can see a pile of rotting compost and realise that within that organic waste lies the possibility of a garden of flowers.


The beauty of life is about the victories won.
The beauty of life is about problems solved.
The beauty of life is about appreciating the world around.
For me, it is about creating something out of nothing;
For me, the Beauty of life is about making the impossible possible;

It's placing value on happiness.
Open your eyes, for life is beautiful..

The sky looks like cigarette ashes in a puddle of milk,
and I, almost 22, am unsatisfied that I have not won a Pulitzer.

And I, on the borderline of delusion and confidence, am unsatisfied I am not crazy or cocky enough to submit to The New Yorker.

I hear the voices of the pastors,
telling me that God heals all.

They say 'He' is the only absolute.

The people raise their hands towards the water-stained ceiling,
as if He'll push his arms through the copper-colored scabs and save them.

Grabbing their wrists and cooing,
I am the remedy to the anxiety of death.

I am six foot one and French, Irish, Cherokee,
some sort of Anglo-Saxon,
and a lost **** in a drowning garden.

I think about all those who had to ****,
in order to make my cheekbones,
eyebrows, lips, and ****.

I think about how I'm good at *** and bad when it comes to forgiving too easily.

I wonder how I can sweat on another body,
but only feel naked when I have to be myself.

I watch the elderly chant words:
******, ******, ****, and Half-Breed.
I study if their dry lips reflect the hate in their eyes.

Not all are like this,
but I am surrounded by tables of them,
as I pretend to be Christian,
just to get ahead.

I don't speak,
just sit like an unfilled bubble,
waiting to be marked out by graphite.
I feel like a *******,
I wish I had a Pulitzer.

The sky looks like a stretched grape,
covered in kisses of ******.
And I, white American conformist,
am unsatisfied
that I have succumbed to the American Dream.

I wish I had a Pulitzer,
I wish I had my mom and dad.