i've never felt
so alive
experiencing the full range of human emotion

this is what it means to be human
what it feels to breathe without condition
and shackles to their needs
conservation of energy
preservation of self
outcomes fulfillment

residual ties out of desperate attempts at connection
burning those same bridges out of fear
i'm known
not understood
used as a tool from my own overextended hand
not understanding
people can't be used as distractions
finding the flaws in repeated dynamics
where do they **** up
but where do i contribute
is the better question
how am i the problem.
i am the problem
and now, how do i resolve this
time will offer it's lesson again
let me catch up
i'm still doing my homework

Bow. Bow to it all: the loss, the deluge, dams broken,
lives buried in beds of mud, square miles of charred forest,
all those for whom those forests were home.

Bow down to the loss, let it fill you. Their loss, your own loss,
each loss emptying the world of its having been. The ever-flowing
waters carving out new routes from higher ground to the depths.

Nothing is lost, only changed, reborn as a new sapling here
by the edge of the receding water line.
From ashen forests floors oaks sprout.

The loss of loved ones filling multiple hearts with compassion.
Where there was the touch of a hand memory serves up
sublime moments. Sitting, talking quietly on a brownstone stoop.

You remember her last words. She was in her wheelchair and it was time for you to leave and as you said goodbye you asked: “Is there anything else I can do for you before I go.” And she turned to you with that deadpan expression of hers and said: “Yes, take me with you.” And you laughed, hugged her, and left her there with her husband and cousin – her dear cousin who called you the next night and said: “Susan died today.”

You sob, then later that night you begin remembering the
sublime moments with her, each one filling you up again
as you honor her request and bring her home with you.

Trees along the road

continue to grow as if --


nothing had happened.

No one tells you that the hard part about dying is surviving
                    

                     Coming to terms with your end
                           but its only the beginning of a new end
                                                                                      

                                                                                          I mourned for life

I am the boy who sits at the back of the class; I am the myth and legend, that you have never heard laugh.

I am the eloquent, who so seldom speaks "Good day." and "Goodbye."
I am the b r o k e n, though you will never see me; p a r t i a l or cry.

I am the Lie.

I am the Lie, well housed in the illusion of an ever-present smile.

I am the wary traveller, exhausted yet still encouraging others to walk the extra mile.

I am the dying and ill, who screams to others. "Keep surviving and living, hold fast to your will; life once truly lived, has both bad and good."

I am a human... for better or worse. I am a duality to all others; either a blessing or a curse.

I am a song sang, though others remember only a verse... I am a play, that has been exhaustively rehearsed.

The word peace
Conjures up images of hippies
In tie dye shirts
And flowers in their hair
But Personal peace
Now there is something there
Bubbles floating
In the steaming bath tub
That makes me feel like
A rose petal
In a hibiscus tea
Melting me into
A softer side of me
As I dose to sleep

Mornings rise
And I breath in
Breath out
Mantra moments
Spent with an app
That filters into my body
And let’s go of the crap
Of noises and neighbors
Of people who blather
On and on
This stream
A river
Of unconscious anger
Yet it has become a leaf
In my tree
I breath in
I breath out
Letting my branches stretch
Farther
As I repeat the mantra
I embrace all of the good in me
I embrace love, life and harmony

My heart is beating rhythmically
 In resonance to the beat of 'End Of Time’.
My soul is breathing in tranquility,
In response to the gleaming full moon.
My body is surviving poetically
In reply to the poetries I write.

Here is a poem

I made it from the words I found on buses, newspapers, blowing in the afternoon wind
and in daydreams.
And from the words you never told me..
Like "I won't give up on you"
Or "I'm staying".
I assembled them along with the leftover words from my suicide notes.

Just for you.
Just like how our lost brothers used to make them.
Or would've.
I want to see these words living on your lips.
Or falling down your cheek.
Or Running Along Your Wrists
OR WRAPPED AROUND YOUR NECK
Or even just reflected at the back of your eye.

In the hope that you'll receive a call at 3am on a Sunday morning about these words.

Then hear them again on the evening news.
About how they were found ISOLATED, HANGING in the dark,
AND SPILLING ACROSS THE ROOM.
Haunting it for centuries to come.
Let them talk about how it was the words.
Instead of one of us.