We walked in a daze, driven
for a better answer than the one given.
We, chasers of the elixir to heal wounds
But we, chancers, and ended up in a field.
Wounded Healers, laying on hay.

The filed was empty and foreign
It's beauty stolen and was now barren,
expect for the hay we lay on.
There a great sense of clarity aroused.
But before that rose could nourish and fully flourish, it rained.

Youth knows no pain, but that's a flawed statement.
Truth is, if you saw us in the rain
You'd see what we felt was raw and fresh.
We felt the cleansing waters on our flesh,
But even if we stood in this shower for hours, we'd still feel so *****

'We, Two Boys Together Clinging'
Clinging to the idea that we could fix each other.
With a mix of empathy and sympathy.
You said the arts would help, so we acted out our damaged parts.
Listening to the symphony of our bandaged hearts.

These here, these great seas,
All the poets have come to you;
and stood in awe before vast pleasing views,
Of tempests wrought great sorrow,
Of skies filled with ore and silver light,
Of deep unknown and questioning existence,
Of gods, and heavens more vast than you,
Of who sails beyond the horizon,
Of the winds and scents of your shores,
Of endless sands to set foot upon,
Of all the arcane myths and lores!

How may I greet these great seas any differently?
So that I may cause a shift in the tides?
Alas, dreams far grander than I, these are;
The tides will shift as they may,
And every soul will be swept away.

What thought I have of you now, my love
As I quietly eating pho alone.
On the brink of light and shadow?

I thought I saw Whitman.
Oh, it's just you wearing beard again,full
The way I love the most.

As  I quietly eating pho alone,
Adorable babies parading by with their genuine smile and
Dimples in those little fat hands
Whitman takes the seat in front of me
"You should stop listening to Captain's words"

Polaroid cameras
Trees with leaves
Mason jars of water
Adventures into oblivion
CDs
Journals with no plain pages
Studios with paint on the walls
Brick buildings
Small towns full of life

I may not be Walt Whitman or William Wordsworth or Robert Frost. But I am human and just as Whitman and Wordsworth and Frost wrote, so too can I write.

So too can I share with strangers words that express my humanness because even if I'm not famous, I feel, I see, I hear, I simply exist.

Isn't that what poetry does?
Reminds us that we all experience this world similarly,
We all grieve,
We all seek,
We all love,
We all want,
We all cry,
We all wonder,
We all simply exist.

And that is enough for me to write, for you to write, and even if we don't get recognition,
It's about conveying this notion of existing.