With the whisper of the wind, the words gently sting the very fiber of who you are and who you hope to be. The whispers coil and whirl as you filter the sound.

The time in life where influence is of the essence. Where words shape and disfigure our being. A time in life that shifts as you blink. As friendships fade in and out, some as quickly as they came. The stories take on a different color as the days pass.

As some things are left to be, we can only stop to see. Here we are. Chasing and dreaming. Seeking and seething. On the floor of our rooms we cry out and sob, but the daylight breaks and soothes the calls.

We arise to greet the new day, but often it feels old. As if on repeat the day comes. Sold to the rhythm of the society we take part in. The movements of the day can feel rigid. The steady beat of expectation .

With sighs, we walk in anticipation of a better tomorrow. Perhaps not realizing every day is a gift. Neglecting the reality that we can choose to live better than what is expected of us.

With genuine words we can choose to see beyond what has been given. To give far more than we thought we could. With words that challenge one another to be better.

Words that pump the heart back to life. That make life worth living. With every step we move forward, we have a choice. We can walk forward or we can continue to look back.

There is nothing left for us from where we came. Even after hours of words exchanged, the past is still the past. And should be left just as that.

With genuine words we can only hope to guide one another forward. To lead with our hearts open to new possibilities and trusting of new relationships.

With eyes looking forward we can see a better future. A future of living what we speak. Guided by conscious and social causes we see clearer.

Genuine words whisper in the wind, but only you can choose what you hear.

you can preach to the choir but I never feel a a note
coming from your own throat.
trying teaching with your stomach instead of your hands
be a little less removed, a little less "improved" -
it's not a bridge until you build it
either start laying bricks or light the match.
if i catch you saying sticks and stones will break my bones
but words will never hurt me one more time, i might just
punch you in the gut.
that's where my words come from
that's where i feel every phrase that's real
come reeling through and keeling over
i'll share these words with you.
just cause they ain't polished don't make them less true.
stop preaching
start listening
then maybe I can, too.

Thanks to all of you...
Thanks for reading my words with your hearts...
Thanks for opening your soul and embrace me...
Thanks for being genuine humans and looking by your hearts...
                                            I am....
Pleased to come across you, lovely souls...
Pleased to read  your words...
Pleased to witness your emotional process..
                                             I'm....
                                          Thankful....

pain is too many exclamation points -
some kind of overcompensation for the sober realization that we need to be happy,
but aren't

pain is burnt toast, but not in the good way;
like the way that it sits on your tongue
Makes your mouth taste like metal,
makes your words feel like crumbs
waiting to be swept away

today, I laughed too much, so by 3 o' clock I had no smiles left in me
They have gone like I have gone to sleep
waiting for some alarm to sing
to ring with something like hope
something to cut the rope, the knots
my stomach ties when I don't notice
Pain is knowing that you know this
will hurt
and knowing is half the battle.

But knowing is...half the battle
The rest of the war is dealing with more
exclamation points than you wanted
more mornings without alarms

more meals
of only crumbs.

.
I have seen ghosts move in long caustic sun,
On shuffled feet, they trod through heavy airs
With eyes blanketed from all that lives growing,
Who knows how far they shall run as they walk,
Dumb before light, shimmers of grace, of flower,
The chalk in their veins flows black under moon,
To speak is to lye, river beds dry, draining forever,
And blood, blue, salted only at the ended journey.