Always read more than you write,
Enjoy more than you dislike,
Critique less than you praise,
But critique none the less.
Though if you come to doubt,
Sing more than you are silent,
Walk more than you are still,
Then pick up the pen once again.
If you somber, write all that is sad,
Yet if you rejoice, write only the praises of the sun,
Though if you laugh, soon you will cry,
Only to know the beautiful cycle of life.

Today you turned up washed,
Almost if a wave passed through the sheets of your bed.
Your hair is a mess,
As you etch a careful drawing in pen.
Careful to not miss a mark,
There's no erasing it,
Or anything you've done.

What's discipline?
It's walking on your own two feet,
It's taking movement into your own hands.

I will walk,
What if it's windy?
I will walk,
What if it's raining?
I will walk,
What if fire pours from the sky and the roads turn to ice?
I will walk.

Silent Echo was an inspiration,
A genius poet with a depth of thought I aspired to have.
Though while he was crude at times,
I never once found fault in his rhymes.
Best wishes to you friend,
And I hope soon I'll read your work once again.

I don't mind meandering,
But I prefer it with you.
For the river doesn't travel alone,
It's swept up in the beauty of the trees,
Or the glassy grains of the sand.
Whether our path is wavy and wanders,
Or straight to the point.
I will find a certain joy,
In each meandering moment I share with you.

A little boy plays by the river,
Slips on wet rock by the stream,
He scrapes his knee.

He cries from the pain,
But his buddies laugh it away.
And he becomes a man,
Because grow men don't cry, right?

If we're being honest,
Not every day is a good one,
You can't make 'em all good,
Otherwise none would be good enough.

Sometimes you just can't fix a broken day,
You just have to take a deep breath and go to bed,
You've got all of tomorrow left.

I walk through the garden,
In the light of day,
Rays of pink dawn,
Jumping through the fray.

Strolling long through the roses,
Bushes aligned in a beautiful bouquet.
I ran my hand through their blossoms,
Yet it came back with blood.

Snagged on the same beauty,
I was there to adore.
Dripping to the rocks,
Laying ugly on the floor.