Pay attention.

Pay attention to this moment;
To the sounds, to the lights,
To the colors in the the sky.

Pay attention to your thoughts;
To the world inside you,
And the way it guides you.

Pay attention to your feelings;
To the joy and the tears,
To the hopes and the fears.

Pay attention to your heart;
To the way that it beats,
To the rhythm it keeps.

Pay attention to your life...

The future already happened,
You're just learning the story.

Accept it. Let it run through you.

Let Love overfill your heart,
Let Light overglow your soul,
Let Hope overrule your fear,
Let New overtake the old.

This is your life;
You're doing your best.
Decide that today
Will outshine the rest.

I do not know you.
But I love you.
And if you really pay attention,
You'll feel it, too.

I'm only 21
And I'm already due
To go
In another 50
Or so

We're not designed to last long
So it's very easy to become overwhelmed
If you look at the timeline
For everything
Living, dead, or inanimate
The length of existence they hold
Is so pitifully short
It makes you sick

It's like
A joke or something
We spend out lives
Preoccupied
Stressed
And
Filled with doubt
And by the time out end is near
We finally want to realize
That the life we've lived
Was not a life at all
More like
A compilation
Of horrible jokes
Fun that lasted mere seconds to minutes
Emotions that mostly
Meant nothing
When it comes to the final
Scheme

I'm not inherently pessimistic
In fact
I've been much more optimistic
Lately than ever
But still
These things surface
When I have a few milliseconds
To philosophize
With myself

Everything I say can never be unique
Its all recycled and up-cycled from spit on the street.
Next to the pavement,
underneath
the asphalt,: black, ******, bleak

When I speak
There is nothing new to say.
Combined in a verse or tense
past or present
prosed in a way
obscure to rational thought. Cursed.
It's worse than worsening.

Suessing,
Sprucing up words
that were
left right
on the curb.
Busted,
Rusted
in god's stead, they trusted
dollars and bills.
Dollar bills
encrusted with lies

Idol-I-
zation.
Idol-me-nation.
Idolatry gives life
to puppets. It's really a Toy Story.

Mothers don't allow their young daughters
to experiment with make-up until old enough
but I had no choice but to bring a brush to my face
and paint the canvas to hide each blemish.
Long sleeves, loose scarves, fitted jeans,
anything to hide the daily playground ritual.  
The swing I experienced was not hanging from chains
but rather from the tightened fists of someone I once knew.
I found solidarity underneath the weeping willow tree
as we sobbed together in the cool air of November.

From the very beginning you’ve had thunder in your mind
and lightning in your heart-you struck with no warning,
Beautiful and awesome and all-consuming.
You stirred up pain like a hurricane,
Short circuiting logic and reason with beauty and fire.

Forest fires often raced through your veins-
Although one could argue for arson,
Boys starting gasoline- soaked infernos that burned bright and died,
Leaving blackened roots behind.

You took the whole world in stride,
Stepping like landslides the earth moved beneath you;
You left victims in your wake,
Shaken and changed by the shape of your feet.

You felt changes like earthquakes.
Buildings shattered with your realizations,
The glass fragmenting into opinions ideas connections that left you shaken.

Your anger erupted like volcanoes-
Emotions bubbling under the surface until they blew sky high,
Magma, hot and molten that spat up and consumed everything in its path.

Depression hit you like a tsunami.
A monumental wave that roared up
And crashed
over everything and everyone that ever loved you.

Then there was drought,
All the distractions died out and your cracks beginning to show,
Widening as you lose yourself in the ebb and flow of compassion.

And your future is as uncertain as a tornado.
It’s up in the air and we don’t know where it’s going to touch down;
Which house it’s going to rip apart next.

A simple question,
four words, why do I write?
I write for me,
to escape from the world.
I write to express myself
in a way I wouldn’t be able to with my voice.
I write for others,
to entertain them,
put a smile on their face,
or to let them know they aren't alone.
I write to forget.
I write to remember.  
I write because I know the paper won’t judge me.
The pen will never disagree with me, even if I am wrong.
I write because there are no boundaries, no expectations.
I have the ability to create anything with just words on a paper.
I write to save my imagination, to expand it.
I write to better understand my surroundings,
to see the world in different ways.
I write to hate.
I write to love.
To cry.
To smile.
I write to communicate,
if no one will listen.
I write for various reasons.
But most of all,
I write because in second grade
my teacher told me I could be an amazing writer.