When the changes come
will winter winds still blow?
What world will we see
as quicksilver higher flows?
When this time is past
will songbirds still be heard?
Will parents still tell children
of the bees and the birds?
Will grandchildren know about
lightning bugs in the dark?
Will lovers still know what’s meant
by butterflies in their hearts?
May those gifts that we leave
for those who come hereafter
not become the close
of this book’s final chapter.

we rode our bikes on autumn street
still not convinced it’s not a dream
wind swept hair and promises
that we'd never forget how it feels

you forgot about autumn street
as soon as the leaves fell from the trees
forgot all those promises
so ready to never look back

too eager to grow up and leave
but I think I'm stuck here
I'm still on autumn street
and you're state lines away

I'm stuck between growing up
and staying in my comforts
it seems too easy for you
to move on from autumn street

I ran through autumn street
and forgot to think about you
I think it's a sign
that I should leave too

I ran from the woman I couldn’t yet see
Her heart too wild, her soul too free
Lost in the ache of everyone else's touch
Fearing the depth of feeling too much.

So I stop running, though fear grips my hand
And face the mirror I can’t yet understand
Endless reparations made a mosaic of fire
A masterpiece born of struggle and desire.

But love waits softly, in shadows I chase
A quiet whisper, a tender embrace
In broken shards I start to believe
The woman I’m running from wants me to breathe.

And as you mourn the memory of her
I mourn the memory of you

Still,
I imagine a future
where you
and I
exist together

Unfortunately,
I know
we never will

Todas mariposas
Estuvieron oruguitas

All is round
The globe
The earth's orbit

It all repeats
Our history
The moon cyle

Yet it adds
Some reliability
It is predictable

Where is it?
The originality?
The free will?

If everything just
Cycles continuously
Where is change?

Is it possible?
Can change
Happen at all?

Can people change? That's one of the hardest question I've stumbled upon.
I've seen so many people change throughout my life.
My parents, my family, my friends.
Everybody's changing.
But when i look into a mirror, i don't just see glass that reflects light.
I see such an unchanged math problem that we might known as constant.
I see, myself.

Being constant is not the same as being consistent.
It's not a wordplay that everyone could mix it up.
Those two not even homophones.
Being consistent is sometime a thing that we could be proud of.
And yet being constant is
an illness that I haven't find the cure of.

I'm not saying that it's uncurable.
What I'm saying is
I'm sick of it.
I'm sick of being an unchanged variable that doesn't know how to change.
I'm sick of being a constant that is easily scratch out in a derivative.
Who are scared of the slightest change that eliminates.
I'm sick of being a constant that is negligible during a definite integration.
Who are disposable when the such circumstances are known.

All I'm saying is,
I'm sick of being a constant.
And for now,
I want things to change.