I fought my inhibitions
but nature pulled through

Breaking barriers of what if's
unclothing all those hidden thoughts

Naked and free, I bashfully
bathed in my liberty
succumbing to all things "now"

For I have found beauty
in the "momentary"
and the naturally
inevitable

I found you/ a musical note
in a pond full of static
we made a soundtrack
that no one ever heard
drowned out by sirens
a gap that just widens
you were my unique find
I'd do anything for you
but stay

A beautiful soul is hard to find,
With so much on my mind,

You are so much more than what others think of you,
A tower, a flower and a writer too.

All that I think is mine,
All that I think is me,
is a summation of what I've been told,
of what I've been instructed to see.

'Who am I' is not the question.
The crisis is not one of identity.
Don't be misled, my friends.
The real illusion is this 'me'.

There is nothing new inside there.
Just scribbled notes and summaries.
A bunch of borrowed opinions
And some stolen memories.

I know I can talk and share today.
I can scream to make some noise.
But I hope by the day I die,
I'll have somehow, found my voice.

When I first saw your smiling face
That first time I felt its embrace
At that moment I began to believe
You would be the only one for me

Your image would daily enter my dreams
While filling my heart with pleasantries
Within came to life songs I would sing
About your loveliness, I would daily see

With each new awakening moment, I find
There is no place I would rather now be
Then living and enjoying life by your side
Thanking God for what He's made to be

And the whole of me joyfully surrenders
All of what I am now, and soon will be
For I know each day with you in my life
How spiritually lovely it will always be...

Each day I'm blessed by your precious love!

I have been all of them...

So,
how could they shock me?
and
how could I not understand them?

They are me
from the past -
this is for certain,

but am I them
from the future?
This is unknown,

and most likely, unlikely.

The polish dripping on,
Spreads its wings like a swan.
Flash that skirt,
It doesn't hurt.
Looking so pristine,
Independent queen.

Face lays brightly bare,
Concealed by pithy hair.
Don't you shave,
It's what you crave.
Looking rough and mean,
Independent king.

The lines begin to blur.
Rigid roles grow dimmer.
Epicene,
Tear down the screen.
Authenticity,
Who you want to be.

What saddens me horribly,
is that we spend too much time tangling ourselves up in our own insecurities.
Looping it around our throats and strangling our souls.
Maybe we need to start carrying around a mental knife...
Start cutting ourselves free before it’s too late.
The slow and painful process of watching a beautiful persons heart deflate from the negative needles that they turn on themselves, is becoming too common and too difficult to see.
Please, know that you're loved,
that you're unique,
that you're beautiful and smart.
Know that you're worthy of kindness.
Especially from yourself.

-Sincerely, A Stranger

Moths—they are nearly all comprised of the same tender characteristics: empty colors that've somehow been ****** away like the nectar they digest, fuzzy abdomens that crumble within the softest pinch, and powder encrusted wingspans that fray with countless beatings from the wind. I have come to recognize that there are people like Her who dwindle within themselves among all of us, unheard; enthralled by color that doesn't exist to the naked eye, but rather to an imaginative mind and a battered soul. She is The Moth Girl and she, too is the epitome of simpler things. With Her fair skin and enchanting, grey eyes that **** you in with a single glance; lips so chapped and brittle that they're nearly as drained of pigment as the rest of her. I've decided that She is the reason oblivion hasn't doomed us all and obliterated our world to dust. I've imagined Her as oblivion itself, annihilating other galaxies and collecting the discolored soot from each explosion to sift it over the wings of every moth that has ever been criticized. With this, I have concluded that every moth must be a victim.
⠀
But, if given the chance, would they transfigure?
⠀
I've undergone the thrill of witnessing these moths revolutionize into harlequin humming birds that thrive at Her will. Wings that were once littered with dust are now far too rapid and swift for manifestation. The Moth Girl — She remains a flower of a woman, though now She is sprouting with petals that burst with color; filled with nectar sweeter than She. They are all rich with vibrancy.
⠀
With it, they have concluded that it's not much different being evocative.
⠀
After everything, I have decided that they were blooming with color all along, and it was the rest of us that simply couldn't see it.