What I fear the most
Is being not enough for the world.
I tell myself every day:
You are trying. It’s not easy.
Be kind—it’s the mindset.

Alas, I fail.

I didn’t care for my mother.
I don’t understand my father.
I idolize my brother
And refuse to fall for a stranger.

Where will I go now?
Maybe to the mountains.
The fear creeps in again:
The mountains are too big, and I am too small.

I’ll try again.

I’ll go to the sea.
The salt will be enough.
I might catch this wave—no, that wave.
My fingers slip through it all.

I will hold your hand, maybe,
While you show me what’s yours.
I think I’m scared of being the dark,
The same dark you are afraid of.

Darling. Babe. I might call you these names.
I fear I won’t be enough for you.
I hope you’ll help.
I hope you’ll wait.

I hope you’ll have time.

Let it be the Mountain she finds Holy—
not because it sparkles,
seduces her
or speaks in riddles,

but because its dark loamy soil
receives her bare feet like a memory.

A prairie hill above the sea,
where grasses bow and whisper,
and the wind carries the salt and scent of things
too old for names—
that’s where the house stands.
Not built from stone,
but from time.
And longing.

And the laughter of those
who once remembered Eden.

Let her dig down,
as if the roots of a wildflower
were waiting to rise through her skin,
lifting her slowly from within—
the stem, the pistil,
the fragile yet indestructible bloom.
Let the soil speak to her in silence,
saying:

You are still loved.
You are still alive.
You are not what happened to you.

Let her turn toward the sun—
not in shame,
but in radiant defiance—
and know in that moment
where her help truly comes from.

Let her running to the mountain
be joy, not dread.
Let her ascent be not an exile,
but a return.

Let her wings unfold brazenly,
as the daughter of the living God.
Not tucked.
Not hidden.
Not compromised.

She does not belong to the mountain that mocks love
and feeds on the ruin of hearts,
or exploits that which is still unhealed

She belongs here—
where her own flesh and bone
become not only family
but friend,
through the common bond
of the soil that gives life to all who dare to sink into it.

She belongs
where peace lives in warm light on cold nights,
where cotton sheets smell of soap and skin,
and starlight sifts through trees
like the hush of forgiveness.

Let her remember her first love..
before the theft,
before the theater.
Before the wound.

Let her toes remember
what it was to wiggle in the dirt
of something unbroken,
unshamed,
true.

Let her find home again—
not in a place carved out for her,
but in the space she reclaims
with her own rootedness.

Let her petals unfold slowly in the sun—
but only with her feet deep in the mountain's soil,
where others also have planted their lives,
becoming one
in harmony of breath and memory and Grace.

She will not enter into a sepulcher
or a place that makes usury of her pain.
She will stand on the mount before the rising sun—
alone if she must,
but never abandoned.

And somewhere in the hush between
the breeze and the soil,
she may yet feel

the quiet echo
of someone still with her.

Meet me at
the sun polished Crater Lake.
In such lavish light,
the fir, pine and hemlock,
are warmly baked.
Woozy trees, drunk on the beauty.
Inebriated with a
moment of the stolen still.
These stoic bark creatures flaunt
pristine emerald and jade frill.
The long desired water
possess's the purest hue.
The deep cobalt blue,
lazily yet hypnotically,
extends an invitation to you.
The lake's shimmered secrets
hold the most ancient truths.
The charcoal mountainous flank
boast's of thousands of years old.
Stirs a riveting lazy pleasure
in my soul's craters.

I left my heart aching in awe.
In the care of the giant towering mountains,
that deafen even the crow's callous caw.
A collection of a million stolen breaths.
lay in a calm glory of silence upon the horizon.
To rival the most peaceful of deaths.
Stoic peaks salute to pierce
the cloud barren sky.
It is here that exists not a single why.
Maybe just an invitation to climb.
Or to stand varnished with astonishment
as the rising hunks of ecstasy
****** my humble eye.

The water was a blue universe where the soul is fluid.
Lifetime far away from the closest human grid.
Aquamarine dream, shines a glacial sheen
of a mountainside secluded lake.
Engulfed in triangular summits with their bleached
termination dust flakes.
The peace was so still and so primitively profound.
There existed no need to make a single sound.
My every hurt was soothed with liquid blue bliss.
Morning would bring a hypnotic mist.
Moistening blades of grass that are April sun kissed.
Grateful to be alive to witness such a sight.
My soul floats the motionless blue with
sweet trembling tranquil delight.

There's something bout this place,
America, rolling plains and jagged peaks,
Skies of stars drifting in my gaze.

Europe has history,
But we have soul,
No where's better for me,
Than America's portion of the seas.

Whether or not we're falling apart,
This landscape is beyond mere art,
After all, we all came here to make dreams,
Not for the perfect life,
But one we'll remember when it ends.

The tide waves goodbye as I drive back to the mountains of my home.
Though there is no snow at their shallow peaks,
I miss those fall colors which raised me to wonder.
I wonder where the mountains meet the sea.
I wonder if those who only see one or the other
will ever truly understand the beauty this earth provides.
The tide waved goodbye,
and then the leaves on the mountain trees waved hello again.

Mountains around me,

silence, the space, and the wind --


that I can be here.

When you play Magic; The Gathering,
You gotta understand what color you are inside,
That way you can play your color better.
You could be white like the plains,
Focused on order and loyalty,
Keeping a tight fist on your life.
You could be black like a swamp,
Willing to give anything,
To obtain everything.
You could be blue like an island,
Logical and cold,
Doing the hard job of saying no.
You could be red like a mountain,
Fiery and bold,
Ready to rage out on your enimies.
You could be green like a forest,
Big and boisterous,
Here for the friends and things.