It hurts when it ends.
When everything you have ever needed,
decides it no longer needs you.

When it ends, it's the beginning you think of.
That first memory of it -
a precious bliss;
like sunshine, after a storm.

When it begins, it does not say when it'll end.
It never disclaims the pain you'll go through.
It promises happiness, and joy.
It promises forever.
And when it ends, it's the storm that is forever.
A storm that floods your insides with an eternal agony.

For, when it ends, you wonder;
how can this end -
when it is everything you have ever loved,
and needed?

Ode to the girl who sails upon milky white oceans
Ode to the girl who traveled oh so far
For she looked in the black of night
And poked holes in the sky
And in her heart prayed a wish upon a star

She would dream such wondrous dreams upon the sea
And where many faded, the light of hers stayed true
A dream of light, a wish of love
Floated far up above
Through the fog from her eyes of blue

On sandy shores she'd slumber on and the stars would sing
With a roaring fire cradling her to sleep
In sleep she'd dance with a dream
And dance with one only
Amidst the stars, as the night, onward, would creep

And so the union of the girl and dream would carry on
Forever more would it forever be
A dream that lingers in the sky
And in the young girl's eyes
Until the dream becomes reality

When I was younger my mom had a cape.
I used to believe she was some superhero that came and saved us whenever we needed.
And I can’t tell you how many times she came to my rescue.

Through scraped knees, broken hearts, blistered fingers and life changing conflicts, she was there holding out her hand.

I used to think my mother owned the world.
She had a way to make it seem like it stopped spinning when she tucked us in at night.
Like we were the only things that mattered when the moon fell.

She battled Love, proper balance and belonging for years. But I couldn’t be more appreciative that we were the motive behind her struggles.

She was a wrecking ball labeled with dedication.
Destroying buildings full of poverty and mental *******.
And she even helped clean up the debris.

I’ve never seen anyone stand so tall after being knocked down so many times. It makes me feel weightless in knowing I have such a gravity shifting role model.

So this Christmas I won’t wish for anything for myself.
I won’t ask for anything to help sort out my troubled thoughts or materialistic struggles.
And I certainly won’t entail anything that strays from you being the subject matter of today.

All I do ask is that you Love yourself as much as I Love you.

You are the strongest, most intelligent and most inspiring woman I will ever know and I’m so lucky to be able to call you my mother.
I am forever cherishing you bringing me into this world and raising me the way you have. I take lessons from you daily and I’ve ended up more than fine.

Thank you, for being you.
*I Love you, mom.

I wait for the sea,
wait for the endless stretches in blue
the plundering waves
rushing, crashing
foaming with surfs breaking
on stretches of sand.

And then the sea,will take me in
as I plunge myself in its arms
will hold me tight
while I feel the water heaving
pulsating with a force never known,
playing with my being,
its wetness, the vastness, the mystery
is a love never known,
all my agonies, pleasures and pain
it will **** from my body,
while every drop of water
caresses me, my skin, every pore.

I'll forget the chaotic world
and give myself to the sea,
it will hold me, I know
even take me down to its core bed
and love me endlessly
will keep me so faithfully
for I yield to it
in full knowledge of what I gain.

The excerpt below is from an interview Philip Roth gave to Daniel Sandstrom, the cultural editor at Svenska Dagbladet, for publication in Swedish translation in that newspaper, and in its original English in the Book Review of the New York Times (March 1, 2014).

It was laid out in normal article (paragraph) form, but I chose to re-present here, line by line, sentence by sentence, for it struck me as I first read it, as a prose poem, and a source of inspiration for me.  But then I realized, I could not improve upon his words, just risk diminishing them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“The struggle with writing is over” is a recent quote. Could you describe that struggle, and also, tell us something about your life now when you are not writing?

Everybody has a hard job.
All real work is hard.
My work happened also to be undoable.
Morning after morning for 50 years,
I faced the next page
defenseless and unprepared.
Writing for me was a feat of self-preservation.
If I did not do it, I would die.

So I did it.
Obstinacy, not talent, saved my life.
It was also my good luck that
happiness didn’t matter to me
and I had no compassion for myself.
Though why such a task
should have fallen to me I have no idea.
Maybe writing protected me
against even worse menace.

Now?
Now I am a bird sprung from a cage
instead of (to reverse Kafka’s famous conundrum)
a bird in search of a cage.
The horror of being caged has lost its thrill.
It is now truly a great relief,
something close to a sublime experience,
to have nothing more
to worry about than death.
-------------------------------------------------------------­--­---

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/16/books/review/my-life-as-a-writer.html?_r=0

If they be dreamers with the world on their backs
Let them be picked up from the dust of despair
On the steam and the grime of the machines of invention
On the sweat and the toil of men and women alike
On the laughter and smiles of the child and childish
Let them paint such futures that can be imagined

If they be dreamers who see sun in the grey
Let them nourish the crops that need such light
May they ignite such passion with unmatched fire
May they shine in the dark amidst the hopeless
May they reflect their light to ward those from danger
A lighthouse atop a lone hill to show the way

If they be dreamers whose minds race ever fervent
Let them race with the speed of a shout
Let their feet never stumble or tarry from their path
Let their footprints guide those who wish to run
Let them live in a legacy composed within an idea
And let dreams carry on and give life to the world

Goodbye careful
hello risky

A thought alignment.
A gathering of ideas.
A herd of beings, all with twisted arms.

The condescending conspiracy takes hold like the body of a snake.
How can we expand our minds if they've become beguiled by the thought that everything will "be okay"?
Weight of the truth compares to that of an anvil.
This is why our shoulders become harder to carry around with the years that pass.

So we need to question the most simplistic advocate.

Ourselves.

What is it we need?
Why is it we give up?
Who tamed the fire inside your heart?

Give me passion. Give me hope. Give me assurance that no matter how hard it may be to take that next step into abandonment, you'll keep walking.
Because an empty space never gave you so much opportunity.
A revolution is taking place and we need to open our windows and let the sour breeze roll in.

Find strength in the fallout.
Bring Love in your pockets.

*Awareness is loyalty.

On a clear day, I envy upon sight of cumulus clouds. Billowing, Drifting, Shifting. Floating to and fro vast landscapes in its glorious white state. A fluff of wondrous properties, perched effortlessly above in Stratospheric realm. I yearn to uproot with thee. To unshackle me from the iron ball and chain on my every limb. To float me above from this maze of a land. To lift me from my dull perspective that exists only in left and right, forward and back. My Sherpa, I beg thee to guide me around jagged alpine rocks, through oceanic stretches, above the skyscrapers in my hometown, towards unseen horizons and magnificent views, so that I may per chance witness the meaning of life. In return, I offer my soul as a gift: to form with the essence of thee. Though I know, my naive and loveless character would only taint your color with amorphous grey. Perhaps one day, I can billow, drift, and shift with thee.