it was the sunset that promised you a new day, a better day
the colour of her smile after she made a silly joke
the adorable giggles she hid and the shy confessions she made

the warmth of her hugs, words and her eyes
it was the comfort that bloomed when she told me 'everything will be okay'. the safety I found in her eyes when I nodded, believing it too.

the sleepy goodnights and cheerful good mornings. it was the orange love between yellow smiles, forehead kisses and red-burning flames of passion

love that was always there, even when the sun went to sleep.

it was the all-encompassing flutters in my chest when we were together. orange butterflies racing against one another.

orange was the colour of her love, like the sunset, that always promised a better day

I imagine sitting on a porch somewhere humid and calm,
a tall tree, full of hand fruits, providing shade to foot traffic.
In this imagining, the lemonade is almost too sweet but doesn't stick to the table when it dries, and the mesh lining of the patio denies mosquitos all entry.
Their buzzing is drowned by the sound of ice being crushed three or four times with margarita mix and my favorite sin. Here, life has halted so dearly in a way I've always wanted, and in this, there is peace.
My parents would have kept a container of peanuts nearby to have with their Pepsis for days like this--
days where sound and warmth and humidity mingle, and fanning yourself with an old church pamphlet was better than being
bored, comfortable, and air-conditioned.

i usually try
to start work
at 09:00
but today
a streak of sun
across the middle
of the floor
was so appealing
i had to lie
stretched out
and splayed
in that pool
of warmth
within seconds
of being down
the dog nosed
at my ear
and slumped
at my side
his chin resting
on my arm
perhaps
seeking closeness
the comfort of
my presence
or maybe
simply protesting
a hint that he wished
to stretch out
where i was lay
as clouds crept
across the sky
to steal our sunlight
he shifted his weight
let out a deep-lunged sigh
but stayed at my side

Only within darkness
Can our truth shine
Behold we are the candle

Give me a spring morning, far from winter’s troubles.
On an earth axis-turned toward the life-giving sun.

Announce it with tulips and trumpets of yellow daffodils.

Watch as young, colorful, impressionist, bluebell,
dogwood, snowdrop, and primrose blossoms preen,
in the candid radiance of the abaxial springtime sun.

Enjoy new life dancing, playfully on tactile wafts of warm air.

Inhale that air, freshly fragranced by flowers in luscious bloom.

Catch the bright chirp of new life and hear the humble
buzz of bees hard at their work, spreading the pollen of life.  

Then lengthen these hopeful, verdant days, like a blessing.

You speak in second and third person form through  ( _ ) ,

who so supremely and almost continually speaks  in second
and third person voicings and conveyance,  things that
   represent the internal you..

                             yes, kid...
                                 --very much in the first person.


       Yeah.. that.


...And this:
If you ever were to feel safe enough  to eliminate
a fairly large handful of the  'middlemen',  I would
most happily float across the wire  to you

and meet you in the very real kind of way
that risks of being wholly consumed..

(..but like the lone bush, remains wholly un-consumed  
   by the strangest kind of Unforgettable Fire.)
          Unpredictable and uncouth  (me)  
          does not necessarily translate as "unsafe".
                        (Food for thought, kid.)

        And what if  by chance,  
we only do live one life here on earth...
    (and this one right here is that one.)
You speak everything within you so very well..
but you do it from a safely-unobtainable distance--
a well-built and well contrived one.

(or should I say, a well-built and well contrived,  fortress)

Frustrating, yes... but none of that  takes away  
from the  true beauty of heart that you so well convey.
Throughout the years, your unique voice
has made itself known in so many different forms..
    but eventually that rare and unique heart
    nearly always gives you away

   ..In truth, a person like you need not be afraid.

So young love..
form the warmth of your heart's home
within the knowledge of that,
and you never again  will go without
the warmth and glow, of true Hearthfire.


Sorry, kid.. but you can't write the way that you do
without eventually having to pay the glorious price.

I'm in love with the idea of being in love,
Of kissing a boy, of having enough.
I trust in the process of having trust,
Of flying free like the happiest dove.
I'm in love with the idea of being in love,
But more so in love with all of the above.

To be an artist is to be free, free of my own thoughts and ideas
Free from other's expectation and standards
Free from everything except the artist itself, me
I carve, I paint, I draw, I create
To satisfy my mind and souls' desire
Artist conveys what's in their head
Artist express what's in their heart
Artist tries to build connection in between people's heart
Just like how chef prepares a dish
WIth thorough preference of smell, taste, and texture,
Artist prepares masterpiece to appease the eyes with perfect features
Life is like an art
With an artist giving color to one's life
An artist never doubts his own outlook
Artist uses it to be converted into book
A book, full of experience and emotion
A book, soon to be shared and unfolded to the nation
When an artist loses its way
Art will find you to make you stay
In silence, in chaos
It doesn't matter
As long as it's always what we choose.