"never let it die"
never let what die, exactly?
the passion?
i love arranging words
but even i have to admit
that eventually the day will come
when i can't find a new way for the words to sit
and i can't know if that day will come
before the day my curséd hands-
the ones that feel like pianist's when floating across a keyboard
while the owner watches words dance on the page
-become gnarled with age
perpetually pained and praying for the end
my life's greatest joy in the beginning
once my best friend
soon becomes my wayward true love
gone on the wings of a dove
leaving me with nothing to do
but stare hard with tired eyes at a bingo card

or is it the wonder?
wonder is life's greatest blunder
because as long as knowledge knows what's best
wonder will wind up dying like the rest
surely it is no contest
when a child's tooth transfigures into a 50 cent piece
just like magic
except for the part where little timmy
one eye peeled open
sees dad sneaking away in the night
trying so hard not to make a sound
or the year sally slaved over cookies for santa
taking care to leave a carrot for rudolph
only to realize that for some strange reason
santa's signature bore striking resemblance
to mom's when the pen in her hand does a dance

is it the motivation?
motivation is sometimes hard
when people are telling me that this isn't my calling card
all their tight-lipped smiles of pity
whenever i'm asked, "what else do you want to do?"
to be perfectly honest, it feels kind of ******
it's a knife in my heart, a stab in my back
in my darkest hour i feel my resolve crack
and there goes the backbone we all know i lack

or maybe it means me
or bigger than me, the fragility of life
the very thing that causes so many strife
but i know it is merely a pipedream
eventually my poor eyes will lose their gleam
you might say,
"hey now holly
it's not so bad
you could live on through your words
come on, they're more than just a fad
wouldn't that be rad?
now, there's no need to be sad!"
i mean, sure, but it isn't me who's got longevity
it's those words i wrote just to get some levity
what's so special about me
compared to all those other dead white dudes?
tell me one thing about shakespeare the man
and then tell me about your favorite play he penned
then we'll measure which conversation's longer
and that's the answer
regarding whether me or my words are stronger

"never let it die"
now that one's a crapshoot
but trust me, i'll be ****** if i don't go down trying
"ms. mcfarlane, you're dying-"
-**** straight, kid, we're all dying
but listen here, sonny
i'll be a monkey's uncle if you think
i'm going before you do, just another fink
nah, i'm going down screaming and fighting
i don't really care if they drag me down or up
just pour a little more champagne in my cup
this whole life thing? it's mostly dumb luck

"never let it die"-
now that's impossible, but
water it, nurture it, let it grow
not having the ambition, though
that's your real foe
its temporary nature is the artistry
that fosters the artist in me
so sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride
because everything in life happens in due time

I was born on a border, a fence between
The two places I might have belonged.
I am the stranger in the doorway,
The lightless flowers blooming in fissures,
Two sides of a rusted pingin -

My bones are not heavy enough
To anchor me to any place - I float above,
Watching scentless flowers bloom
And records turn in silence,
My limbs hanging limp as the others
Dance below.

One could be a moth
Or midday butterfly,
A deceitful demon
Or a cherub on Eden's sky.

An enclosed cellar
Or an open book,
Bittersweet venom
Or a milk and honey scoop.

One shall have a choice
of to be or not be,
Facing one's own path.
Call it destiny.

There is a daily choice
Opened to be selected
Between what's right or wrong
To stand straight, or to be deflected.

But then again life's more than
A black and white selection,
where 'pro's and 'no's run
to create one's subjective reflection.

So we are the sums of our choices
no matter if they're right or wrong,
and doomed to be constantly living
with both beauty and chaos along.

I am dust.
Blown by the wind
And rained down
By evaporated seas,
And flowing
And glowing
And starting
A sneeze.

I am dust.
Just a tiny piece
Of earth,
Just a flying piece
Of rock,
not steady,
But ready
for permanent
Change.

I am dust.
Not now,
But always,
And important
Through all days
Like Saturn
Or Plato
Or Gods
On walls.

I am dust.
And as dust flows
And as wind blows
And as my
Soul beats
With ashes,
I will
Forever be
Dust.

even in our best
light, we, as humans
are irrepressible

even in bodies
made of stardust,
bodies that aren't ours

at all,
we still are
wildfires

think, what
is ours,
what is truly ours?

and what is impermanent
as the stars in sky
just ready to collapse?

there are rivers of us
on earth,
there are bodies who has dissolved

into said river,
and filled everything up
into some unholy flood

even in our best light,
we as humans
are irresponsible

isn't it funny
how nothing
is real?

How can I not dream big
In this lackluster life of mine?
Overwhelming fear forces my hand
To play against any notion that this is it.
An artist, a writer,
A musician, a scientist
I'll take anything to get me out
Away from this life that is so called Mine.
To finally get the chance at an exhale
And have it not be my dying breath
I have to do something
Why must dreams only exist in my sleep?
I have to wake up.
I have to live.