It's not black & white,
It's blooming with color.
Complicated and simple at once.
The opening of flowers,
One by one,
Petals falling,
Onto stone.
We live, we die.
The story is what matters.
Not the ending.
Today may be a page,
Possibly a sentence.
And tomorrow?

feeling so small,
and powerless.
Holding tight to my row boat,
As the dark ocean waters,
storm both sides.
My matted hair, soaked,
covering my eyes.
I sail alone,
without direction.

and they want to cut me open.
take away what i was born with.

my therapist said we are all butterflies.
transforming, changing.
metaphorically.

but some of us,
are changing,
biologically.
under a knife.
to save our life.

and that is the hardest metamorphosis,
i can think of.

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.