I guess at my best I'm just gluttony and greed,
The rest is a mess, come and punish me and see,
I'm worse than the dirt in the gutter in the streets,
It hurts but my worth is a puddle to the sea,
I'm stuffed in a husk, and I'm struggling to breathe,
But enough is enough, I'm encouraging defeat,
I'll rise to the skies like the nourishment of seeds,
And abide all the cries, I am lucky just to be.

“Paris
Is always a good idea”
                                                                  But not always a practical one
Listening to the rain
Is always a good idea
                                               But what about when the sun is shining?
Walking
And watching the world turn
Is always a good idea
                                                                                            But what about
                                                                      When your bones are heavy
                                                                                           And your limbs
                                                                         Too weak to hold you up?
To sleep
To rest
Perchance to dream
Is always a good idea
                                                                                                    But what if
                                                                    There is just too much to do?
                                                                          Or you close your eyelids
                                                                   And find yourself confronted
                                                                                                      With only
                                                                        The interior of your mind?

Light
Is always a good thing.

Color
Rainbow, grayscale, monochrome
Is always a good thing.

Life
Life lived
(If not always loved)
Is always a good thing.

Joy
                                                                                                and if not joy
Hope
                                                                                            and if not hope
Calm
                                                                                             and if not calm
Peace
                                                                                           and if not peace
Breath.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

1; fear will not **** you, but it can eat you alive and make your insides rot.

2;you must allow yourself to thaw before you can melt--the cold was meant to allow you to feel your own heartbeat. don't ignore it

3; you are alive, even if just barely. make sure to lift your eyes to the sun to know that it still shines even amongst the dark.

4; breathe in with your nose and out through your mouth. you are a passageway for ancestral air and you should take that responsibility seriously.

5; your blood is not special, nor is it ordinary.

6; it is only by chance that you are here. a line of perfectly timed decisions birthed you--remember why you're here.

7; look at the mountains. they were here before you and will be long after you're gone. one day you will become the air that surrounds it.

8; you can lose your footing, but don't despair. sometimes you fall into a new path and it's like breathing in clarity you've never once known.

9; listen to what you're body tells you, it knows you better than you think.

10; when everything turns to dust remember you have the ability to start over. it cannot harm you to wipe the slate clean

Snowflakes scraped underneath fingernail tips
When the charcoal was pressed harder.
As often as the cheetah runs with the crocodiles by the nile
They do not look for each other.

As often as the bees sing
Only once could they muster poison and sting
With a clockwork, shelter and carpentry of honey.
The fruitness of a living body.

The sound that gets lost in the woods
Gets lost and carried
Flying through the whispers between the branches and twigs.
All the creatures are all but lost
Yet the striking fur
Shocks
Hunters into firing hot shells across
and the falcon fell.

A shouting cull
The silence that meant that wildly blooms have been collected.
A bouquet was calling the passing hours
Wrapped in the scraped white spirit of the wooden towers.