Happy: not wanting,

solely letting go of what --


I no longer want.

Less manual work,

more machines, does that make us --


more and more happy?

Returning nests to their trees
Raking the wind for the leaves
You’re too busy to miss me

Creating shadows behind a screen
Stitching seasons at their seams
You’re too busy to miss me

Gathering the stars and their gleam
Scattering fears and their screams
You’re too busy to miss me

Washing winter in it’s stream
Painting the world a brighter green
You’re too busy to miss me

Missing me would mean
taking away your dream
…so please, don’t miss me

7 Harsh truths
(Advice for my kids, and anyone who struggles to let go)

1/ Stop showing up, where you're not wanted and hoping to be needed by someone you really like.

2/ Be brave and let go of the people who are not ready to reciprocate your love, or show little interest in you or your company.
(If they didn't see you coming, then they didn't see you at all!)

3/ Stop struggling with people who are not yet ready to change, you have a yearning to be understood, don't invest your energy's into troubled souls, or be fooled by the appreciation of the sycophants.

4/ Don't be sorry to let people go! set them free, and in time they may find their own calling

5/ There are billions of opportunities in life without the need for modification;
"Like finds like" so be true; and just get on with being you.

6/ A good job well done is where the beauty lies, and there's plenty of work to be done.
Find something you really enjoy, and do it for the rest of your life; time is short, so get on with it, and have fun with the destiny you deserve.

7/  Be both bold and polite; be that guy.

As the crescent moon
Awaits fulfilment again
We, too, wax and wane

A masquerade of perpetual fear,
          for all steps were in unison.
For who would misstep with
         unkept flames catching
                        each indiscretion.

Hollow melodies capture the soul,
           bounding it with this dance
of the dead, neither a  choreography
         but a chain of resonance
        where bones scrunch in fatigue.

The hell fire ball, where all burn eventually,
        Singed gowns, and suits charred.
But the devil is in the details,
and we shall dance till we bleed of die.

           Perfection is a demon of fulfilment...