Tell a little girl that her coily hair is beautiful when all of her playmates think otherwise. Marvel at a little boy’s drawings when everyone else he shows them to is too busy to spare a glance. Compliment someone’s floral dress in the subway; compliment someone’s smile, someone’s art, someone’s cooking, someone’s gumamela flowers soup they made especially for you. Thank someone for the songs they introduced, for the songs that now have become your shower jams and lullabies. Tell someone that you think they’re amazing and smart, especially if they don’t think so of themselves.

In a world where everyone looks past a street singer and ignores the old man painting sunsets in a park, be that someone who isn’t afraid to tell people about the beautiful things in them. Be that someone who isn’t afraid to be soft to others. Be that someone who isn’t afraid to be kind.

Evening downtown,
listening carefully to a poem
read aloud in a coffee house -
sounds like an atom bomb.
     The world isn't ready.

you are so much more than the days you can't create or write anything.

those days where you lift your pen, press it against the emptiness of the sheet. those days where you are drenched in the skies' grayest clouds and the colors and lines won't sew you a silver lining. those days where the spines of your favorite books hold no magic. those days where inaction and emptiness will swallow you whole. those days where sunsets are just a discord of colors, and the night skies are just a discord of stars, and the poems are just a discord of words and you, just a discord of vacuums — you are so much more than all of these days. and today, it's okay to not be able to create anything.

today, it's your turn to be the art — it's your turn to be the poetry.

Maybe I left my dreams in the last song I sang in the shower. Maybe you left yours in your first, half-empty cigarette pack, still hidden beneath a pile of clothes.

Maybe somewhere along the way, it wasn’t our dreams that died, darling — it was us.

So, you've been to Venice,
 kissed at sunset on the gondolas,
  sipped Merlot at
   Ristorante Albergaccio.
    You're very well-read,
     you know Tennyson and Tolstoy,
    Fitzgerald and Faulkner
   ("Always dream..."
  tattooed on your rib).
 You lived in museums for a year,
  you spoke with Van Gogh,
   his ear turned toward you as
    you crawled among the Irises.
     My dear, it is impossible
    that you are a realist.
   It is impossible that you
  speak not of love.
 It is impossible
that you have forgotten.

A girl once told me
I should come over
to the sunny side of the moon
once in a while.

But the moon is not lit up by suns.
It's lit up by earth mostly.
We make it shine.

I light up moons and satellites.
And Elon Musk. How the f**k can one be so dumb
To send a car in outer space,
instead of words and letters? What a pun.

In space we can feel no pain, it gets better everyday
We can challenge steel horses and vast spaces
We can forget races, catch furthest bases.

I could challenge earth
all at once...

I'd like to crowdfund for fun
her first moon library
be lunar writer no. 1

I have been thinking about how fictional worlds thread with our realities,
how if you read a book,
watch a film,
see a play,
the subject matter and themes will unconsciously make their way into your daydreams,
I had been watching pride and prejudice,
thinking of Pemberley Estate,
the countryside,
how English hills can flood with hanging low mist,
overcast and soft,
mild, almost ethereal,
or how it may tear itself open,
on ripe summer days,
the ground verdant and full,
I see an image of us, by a lake,
perhaps an old-fashioned picnic basket,
cherries, peaches, strawberries, plums,
feeding each-other grapes,
we could dip our feet in the water,
laze and kiss and,
have all in the time in the world somehow.
I would have a book of poetry,
Sappho perhaps, Elizabeth Bishop, Emily Dickinson,
I could show you the ones I think you might like,
feed you a strawberry,
read you wild nights,
our hair and hands all tangled,
our words and thoughts entwined too,
and we forget all about the beautiful countryside, and the fruit, and the poetry,
for moments and moments.

I had a **** childhood
But at least the music was good

Smile your Marie Kondo smile on me-
Just smile and pretend it can be done
She is a tank against common sense. Invasion of clear mind.
I never tidy up, my life's a mess.
Marie Kondo though makes me feel even less.
Completely disarmed my will to feel.