tomorrow’s a new day
when
this
night

Will be forgotten
And
the light

and the might
of the eager armies
surging to war

we’ll have forgotten
what the fight had been for

and the wind whispers peaceful death
over grass reaching for height
and the moon in the morning sky
and the silver-hot fright

which the living things move by
driven to flight

when the quickening pulse
and the mood is just right
when the life-shedding earth snake
pulls my skin around tight

i will cling to the new grass
Like the cold morning frost
i will sing to the very last
i will sing very lost

Like the song of the deep sea
Like the howl of the stray dog
who scours the night streets
outlined in the dense fog

when the earth overturns itself
yet again as it always does
when the ends of the universe
touch me, soft like my mother’s blood

i will change in the darkness
like a lady *******
i will cast in my fury
every trapping and dressing

I will rage in the silent storm
I will find peace at last
I will blaze across eons
I will lie in the grass

The ice thaws
  As you ignite the soul.
    Daily practice
       Turns kindle into coal.
          Keep that fire burning
            In your heart.
             Where mountains melt
                and skies part.
                  Dreams and reality
                    meld into one.

The typical 2 a.m. poem is messy
because middle of the night thoughts have no structure

The typical 2 a.m. poem is deep
because darkness is perfect for existentialism

The typical 2 a.m. poem is raw
because it's hard to edit when you're tired

This 2 a.m. poem is just another 2 a.m. poem
desperately trying to be unique

It's just a moment
A crinkly smile
An innocent thought,
About babies or ambitions,
And suddenly I'm old,
Suddenly I crinkle.
I watch myself crack slowly,
No wait--all too fast.
Suddenly it's empty, as it was before
But I can't remember
It must have slipped my mind.
What does nothing feel like?
Like sleep or pointless thought?
Is it rice cakes or white or black,
Or all those words unsaid?
I'll never know what nothing is.
Not even when I'm dead.
Nothing comes and nothing leaves
The nothingness again.

It isn't names that brings me there,
Or tombs or words or history,
It's when I blink and see before me,
Me, but crinkly.
Me, but looking back on the supple face of now,
Looking back and seeing the story from the other end,
And standing in the epilogue
All in a single blink.

I see so much, and hear so much
I smell, touch, I taste and fear
And love and hate and joke so much
It should have killed me
Made my hardware overheat,
Made me want the nothing.

But even when I see her,
(Me, but crinkly)
I know she's laughed and cried much more,
And I'm glad I gave her the chance

Why does the tree seed fly?

To be like the hummingbird, or the bat?

Does it fly to claim independence from the tree?

If its wish is to taste the soil, to take root, then why not just fall.

Does the tree prepare the seed for flight?  

Do the fair hair seeds sit high atop the tree?

Does the tree seed fly to inspire us to fly? Or to fall? Or to fail until successful?

Ask the tree and it will say it has always been that way.

Ask the seed and it will say it has always been that way.

So who decides why the tree seed flies?

Not I.

They’re afraid I’m not myself
That the little circular tablet has changed me
But how would we know?
Before I was crippled by adrenaline
I was so young
You can’t compare me to that
And in the midst of my darkest days...
You can’t possibly believe that’s me
Is that who you’re looking for?
Because I don’t care about everything now
It’s not perfect
But I’m not obsessive anymore
And that’s what I needed most

Therapy Session,
To release the misconception.
Turn the depression into a lesson into a message.
The stem of the universe trapped in a mind,
Questioning existentiality like a child learning to ride a bike.
The root of the issue seems to be external,
But the issue is no more than the perception of a mortal.
We see, we think, we do,
We misunderstand, we think, we choose.
The clouded screen that obstructs our vision,
Is in reality what makes our decisions.
Is the judgment what lights the spark?
Or our perception of the words thrown at us that light the gasoline?
To breath and step back and accept the truth-
No one can truly judge you, except you.
We respond on emotion
Without thinking through,
The more gentle truth that tells you that it’s really not you-
No one can truly judge you, except you.
We feel attacked, abandoned, betrayed,
Like the things people say hold some meaning that should sway,
Our views of our self,
Only bound by our self.
When they look you in the eye and tell you the lies,
Remember,
Others do not decide who you are,
Do not let them define you;

You are

Who    you    are.

If I reach into your traveling star
will these hands turn to ash?

If I can no longer picture your calming eyes
in my imagination are you then gone
from my weary hearthfire?

Do the glowing embers fall silent the moment
I have forgotten the places where
we practiced our cosmic devotions?

When this time has passed
I am still not whole and no one
can save all these mists of rain,
alien roses gone green,
misty mountain spires blackened
by the pummeling fists of time.

I am the creator who wants to crush fear,
knowing this rushing onslaught of unasked-for doubt
and heart instability rises like bile from our thrashing chests.

In a moment I am gone.
Alone until the end,
the soul-missle has self-destructed.

We are children of detonation,
the demolished remnants cleared away
to make room for something new.

This could not be prevented.
Souls twist on the noose.
Soft rain descends and
the smell of death pervades.