Angels have wings
Well, it depends on your perception
When I first saw you I swear nothing could describe the connection
You looked into my eyes, saw my soul, smiled at me, reached for my heart then offered me resurrection
You asked me why my heart hasn’t been beating in so long
You took a closer look ,saw that it was falling apart and you sung to me a gentle song
And the sound of your voice filled me like air
The touch of your fingers felt like care
My broken heart now pumpin’ racin’ screamin’ cause the last time it lived
it lived in fear,
You tell me Angels have wings
Well, you haven’t met mine
Her kiss is like sunshine
Her soul is like moonshine
Strong, glowing , illuminating

Gazing through the looking glass, and attempting to reminisce, he lets go, relieves, and perceives.Colossi of raindrops subtly fall through sky’s shadows , violently battling the grey in great amounts, failing to come anywhere near the threshold of one’s most sensitive ear. Nature’s children appear to tremble as dark forebodings of a dreary future pervade the air. The danger and annoyances of such rarities is always given priority and significance. He misunderstands it; he believes in its false infinity.

Unable to stabilize, unable to achieve a desired normality. From every pitter, he regrets; from every patter he forgets. Forcefully drudging through the thick swamp of his mind, struggling to understand what and why, diminishing his hopes of any change, any desire. Suddenly, several elements collide against his one-way mirror in his cell and revitalize his consciousness. Looking through the droplet, his face pressed against, his mentality momentarily produces quick successions of thoughts and random impulses of recovering memory.  

Every snowflake understands its place as sui generis; every raindrop understands its place as trite. The beauty of a snowflake with death, the dullness of rain with life. It’s uniformity and strict nature are necessary to sustain life, but somehow it places a bittersweet piece of an unusual feeling inside him. Its unexplainable transparency, disguising itself as invisible, but not untouchable, stimulates a sense of deep nostalgic hopelessness within him. As he discovers the profound pulchritude, and simultaneous incomprehensibility, of the paradoxical elements of natural and artificial state cooperating to achieve more of the same, he realizes more in this moment. The monotonous, repetitive beat of rain seems to harmonize in an odd manner with some contrasting presence.

A new rhythm to this sound, a new color to this sight. A particular emotion of gradually diminishing despair comes about as he observes little rain boots composing a sort of  rhythmic song with the catchy beat of the rain’s clashing, the continuous flow of the tree’s trembling, the back-up percussion of the thunder’s loud suddenness, the sight of lightning's exciting flash, and the cheerful singing from their voices.Upon this feat, he accepts the shadow’s tears; no longer must he endure the pain of the past’s ******* of the future, now he begins to savor the varied colors of newfound harmony.

We can meet at the pass
I don't care from where you arrive
The decision is yours to make
The question though is mine
Will you walk as you are?
Not as a reflection
Or as a scar
For in your beauty lies nature
Living free no matter the wind
A pure face without deception
A soft heart without malice
These things you possess
You must only ask for courage
To believe in your past
Ready now to live as a river beds memories
For you have no childs wonder left
No need to walk like all the rest
You are ready at the pass
As am I
It is there where we begin
It is where two equals can rest
Looking for peace
Whether east or west
That you must decide is upon you now
Though it is not about direction
Nor any vow
Only the courage to believe
That a tree is as beautiful barren
As spring leaves that will soon be fallen

I realized I was found when my purpose became duty
It was as if a spear passed through my body without a mark
I know because I felt something but I cannot prove it
The time that passed was instead the distance traveled
And though I was hollow before, this time I actually knew

I thought about taking a chance to see fears beauty
We never take the time to gaze upon its life changing arc
Instead we run never know how we can conquer it
The distance between is instead the time that has passed
And though I have my purpose it is too hard without you

I began to think I was on the front row watching a movie
The strain of the images was like separating light from dark
My entrails retained a memory despite my need to forget it
The distance of time was shortened by my arrival
And though I will remember, it is desire I must subdue

Fear.
For so long, I let it sink its tainted fangs into my neck, drawing blood that dripped to my ankles like something that could make angels tremble in the heavens.
It listened to me speak. I could see the hunched curvature of its spine in every corner of my imagination, watched it swallow the colors of my soul like leftover soup.
Consuming.
It surrounded me, an anchor tethering my heels to hollow ground.


But then I discovered poetry. I discovered the syllabic freedom of bleeding love into the spines of empty journals. I found out that poetry existed in glistening foreheads and moments spent trying to catch my breath again, in split ends and blotted lipstick stains.
I discovered that airplanes do not plummet into the Atlantic Ocean as often as I thought. I discovered that I can ride them without becoming another muted headline, a tragic statistic blaring into the white noise of late night television.
I discovered that my voice had meaning, that it deserved the embrace of a microphone, an eager audience, to be shouted and sung like lyrics to a revolution I had always been taught to silence.
I discovered that proving people wrong is fun.
To the boy who told me at age 13 that I would grow up and become someone’s biggest disappointment, this one is for you. To the despair that kept me wide awake until mornings I wished would be my last, this one is for you. To the same girl who doubted that she would make it, that her brain would ever stop screaming the same addictive chemicals that questioned her very fragile existence, this one is for you.


I made it.
I dyed my hair bright red because I am a fire that refuses to die out, my heartbeats fanning the flames of a life I have yet to conquer. I sing in the shower, with my car windows rolled down at fifty miles per hour, in my sleep. I have tasted tenderness in the form of a heart that beats for mine.  I am loved, I am young, and I am burning fearlessness with every breath.

on the night train to Vienna I dreamt
as the soft tangerine light bled into the windows,
tumbling down infinities of Italian countryside
absorbing into my retinas in summer shades
of dusk-colored haze


entranced I was--
a nervous girl of sixteen years,
uncharted valleys sprawling ceaselessly
at the beds of my fingers,
love languages my tongue could not yet
stretch its fibers around
freedom forming its hunched silhouette
just outside of thin glass windows
cooled by the night’s apprehensive breeze


endless, it seemed
the rumbling blur of possibilities--
my hands sedated for the first time in years.
quietly existing in the jolt of a moving cab,
the subtle ricochet through the faint lamppost glow
of fragile Austrian dreams.


home-- four thousand and forever miles away
and yet here was fine, just fine
a girl with stringy hair and a steaming cup
of midnight European tea
as her mother sighed to herself in the
peak of her American afternoon,
wondering whether her baby had found sleep
in someone else’s morning.

He wrote love poems every morning,
And wet the pillows at night.
He was in love.

Now he, reads depression control,
Drinks whisky, and smiles.

Society calls him matured.