the count starts now (tired of tired)


I read your outcry at 3:00am
posted on Facebook

you are
tired of tired
sick of sick
the only question, will it ever end...

rise this day,  start another way...

count your blessing
count against all odds
for there are more than merely one

use both hands
both hands chested to feel the heart thrusting,
for living is a wondrous blessing unique
an unbelievable to believe than so many beats,
born and borne,
by you, a strength unequaled,
you a richness possessed

count that one first.
count my hands holding your shoulders.
count that as two, one for me, one for you.

more? more.  

mirror.  find the tiny light in each eye against a yellow backdrop.

add two more. for they are a sparking confidence of confirming.

you felt the heart thrumming
go back, feel the breathing warmth breaching forth.
add another. for now known you can never ever be cold.

wash the face, wash away the caution that sleep leaves,
the coverlet of fear that fears you not to dare,
amazing that tap water plain is sacred when it
miracle breaks you out and anoints thy forehead with pure oil like the kings of yore, be a kingly human being.

go out. do not return
until one act of kind is performed and
count that as a thousand blessed, a sum recurring recounted

walk humble and the path will always appear.
walk contented for you can be both king and servant,
there is no difference - you must be both to be the other
one.

and if you still cannot raise the head,
call me.
that would be a blessing for me
and I will hear your blessings sounds mine merge,
dear friend and no more stranger,
that is the simplest definition of our learning to count to
infinity

sometimes your eyes are like planets,
wide and round with wonder.
a look into them shows the worlds that orbit in your mind
and the stars that swirl in your chest.
you're forever as young
as seventeen revolutions around the sun,
but your wonder has already been enough
to send you to the stars.
you've flown lightyears
enough to listen to the echoes
of time and memory contained in space dust,
you've made these sounds your songs.
you've commanded shooting stars
and hung from them,
swinging from tail to tail to get to the moon
and believe me, from my windowsill,
i can see you've made it when your moonlight shines on me.
now that you are up there,
i hope you like the view,
at night, i'll always look outside
just to admire you.

only if it wasn’t fictional and i got infected,
don’t even bother thinking about
my plan to remove the flowers i had
in my lungs-
if that means i’ll have to feel
completely numb
towards your presence afterwards.

because you are
someone whose all my senses
have always been so familiar with,
and as much as i can barely breathe
through the roots that planted deep
in my soul,
i am more than willing to be able to live
with this feelings for you.

though you really are the reason
that suffocates me,
i am afraid that i can’t differentiate
whether it was flowers or happiness
that clogged up my neck.

then i’ll choose to keep them growing
and even water them gently
with many endearing thoughts of you

until the time will come
and the flowers finally drowning me in,
i won’t ever blame you
for making this love
becomes the death of me

there is a part of her missing
and it's not hidden between the lines of her journal
or the baby hairs constantly tucked behind cold ears
a part hidden by too much sunlight
it's not secrets under fingernails
or worrisome thoughts engraved deeply into smile lines

a part of her is missing
but it cannot be found in books yet to be written
in artful lines and timid smiles
in the iris of her eyes
it's not mapped out by the freckles on her shoulders
or in the laughter spilling from her insides
it's not written in her tears
or in the dreams that haunt her

a part of her is missing
it cannot be found or unlocked by you
you cannot bring it out into the daylight
or hold it up to the moonlight
for she has to be the one to stumble upon
the part of her that she is missing