I feel the grass between my toes,
Beneath my feet.
I feel the air flow,
Through my lungs.
Into my soul.
I smell the sweet,
Calming scent of nature.

I am made of dirt and water.
I am no different from the grass.
We may try to seem,
Sophisticated,
Superior,
But we are nothing,
Without this earth.

So I stand on the grass.
And I feel comforted.
I feel at home.

Mother moon,
In the dark.
Weird, reckless, moody,
With energy that could spark.
Divinity,
Infinity,
Illuminating femininity.
The parts of you,
Hidden from the world,
For fear of harsh words.
Misunderstood.
She's beautiful.
Shes strong and exact,
And necessary.
Shining in the dark,
Lover of the light.

A foggy brain,
And stale breath.
Sticky cups cover the coffee table.
A snapshot of past events.
A long list of goals for the days to come.
Wishes, wants.
Not this year.

The suburban checklist I never wanted,
Has been checked off.
But I'm grateful.

A new year really just symbolizes healing,
From all the hurt,
From the year before.

A new piece of gum.
Fresh.

Under the sun,
And the moon,
Tis the season,
For snow-
For friends, and love,
For warm fires,
And real hugs,
For deep breaths of fresh air,
For showing others kindness,
And that you care.
For taking things slow,
When they say to speed up,
For taking the time,
To fill your own cup.
It's easy to lose yourself,
This time of year.
But it's all what you make it,
Be grateful you're here.

Much love,
Me

When I think of seasons,
I don't picture colorful leaves,
Falling in delicate pattern.
I see highs and lows,
Valleys and mountains,
My sadness, my woes.
I can hear my past thoughts echo,
I can remember being happy.
But I cant feel it.
New joy is fleeting.
Falling.
Failing.
This season that I sit in,
Is frosted over, cold.

It hurts to be here.
My mind plays fortune teller.
Predicting all future tragedies.
Mourning all possible losses.
Seeing myself gone.
My little one alone.
It's as if a bully lives in my head.
Taunting my happiness.
Pushing it down,
As it desperately tries to stand.
I'm confused.
And I've been waiting.
Have I always felt this way?
Have I crossed a line?
Should I be worried?
A silent intruder.
Stealthily hiding in my head.
Waiting for its turn.
To make a move.

I am a moth.
Drawn to the flame.
Burned.
Yearning for something we used to have.
For the people we used to be.
I've been trapped for a short while.
Lost in the dark.
You turn out the light.
My eyes can't adjust.
And when you dont mean to,
You turn my wings to dust.