I'm sorry to all the people I hurt while I was hurting

I'm sorry for last minute cancelled plans

And ghosting your text messages

You've done nothing wrong I just can't get myself together enough to answer you right now.

I'm sorry for all of my triggers.

And that sometimes my triggers, triggered you too.

I know I have a lot of them, I know it is frustrating

Believe it or not I've actually come a long way with them though...

I'm sorry for the days i was too irritable and short with you

I understand it wasnt fair.

I'm sorry that the things that upset me, most of the time wouldn't upset other people.

I'm a very emotional person, this is a blessing sometimes but also a curse.

I'm sorry I see things black or white.

I've been hurt so many times, I've built a wall for people in the grey areas.

You're either all the way in, or out of my life completely.

I'm sorry this comes off as dramatic, and unrealistic.

But if you know me well enough, you'd understand why I see it this way.

Regardless of all of this, I'm sorry that I pushed you away because of it.

Because of my, me-ness.

So far away.

When really I needed you right here.

But this is what I do when I'm hurting.

I hurt you because I'm hurting.

None of that is fair.

I'm sorry if you were one of those people.

It can be Frustrating to look so mean
When Success presents your Certificate
And Honest Fans some to most turn so Green
When their Tangent Voices are celibate
Now my only Say to unsoak the Blame
Is when that Sponge within Speaks without Words
You know it as HEART; That Character sane,
Serene discharge of Flavoured Bees and Birds
Even when Flowers rebel and Worms spit
Still your Compassion can embrace them all
Believe this: In, to Out, Around and Fit
Past the Royal Egg survive a Great Fall.
It's been there in you; And all of this Time
My Lesson to learn from Wise Owls behind.

The smooth surface of a snooze button
Probably pressed enough for two people
Lastingly longs for a lift of his head
Heavenly hopes in hand the button wafts herbaceous
Scents seducing his sack of sullen

The button beckons in unbearable vain
Wishing his waste of space could find work
Or motivation to move about the mattress
Cause cheerlessness corrupts even carefree things

Including myself inclined to intervene
So I will surround the room with sound
In a frustrating futile fling of furry
Until I encumber bereavement from bills I beckon upon.

Some people will approach you. You will let them, and they will hurt you.
But here’s the twist: they won’t want to.
Their intentions are sweet and pure, like petals that drip in honey.
Flowers; but the kind that are covered in thorns.
But here’s the twist: they do not know they have thorns.

“Where are you!” they will cry, standing in the quiet café you would meet.
But they will not find you.

You hide, hearing their soft whimpers, and you think, “Oh, what should I do?”
But you see, you cannot tell them about their thorns.
You cannot say ‘you are unsafe for me’ without breaking their heart and yours with the truth, the crushing truth. For thorns only fall when a soul has grown enough, and theirs has not grown where yours has;

“Please speak to me! I don’t understand!”

and this is why they do not yet have the capacity to understand your silence.

You hide still, and you cover your ears, but oh, how painful it can be, when flowers are so stubborn!
“Shush”! you want to tell them, “Shush! You cannot yet hear the truth! Stop calling my name, I’ve little patience left! Do not hurt yourself, do not hurt me!”

The thorns that *****, the honey-kissed petals that fall.
Oh, how frustrating! -to hide from flowers who only wish to love, but have not yet learned how.
Oh, how sorrowful! -to see a hand bleed when you caress it, to be covered in thorns, and to not even know it!
Yes, how awful it is, to hurt another.

I will tell you something.
I have pricked the ones I love, when I only wanted to give,
and I have hurt flowers who all but withered away at my silence- whose souls had not grown where mine had.
So you see, I am both the flower and the Other, so I understand.

And so here it is, here is what I want to say:
Shush, flower. Stop calling their name. You cannot yet hear the truth. Do not look for it; for it will crush you. Do not hurt yourself, do not hurt them. Shush; the pain you seek to **** will not wane with force. Shush, flower, quiet your wants. Listen instead; listen to the lessons of the universe, grow. For only when you have grown will you be able to understand.
Shush, flower, and know, that one day you will sigh at the memory of your pain, and the thorns will have fallen from your body; and flower, oh flower,

you will be able to hold their hand.

Obscure
the messages,
their context
out of synch,
don't you just love
cyber space?

I want to see an actual face.........her your voice.

Your curls are Gulf Coast weather,
rarely cloudless and sunny, each
frustrating loop a messy
ice-cream scoop cascade.
They look like a love affair,
as ***-centered as your star sign,
too-friendly, sunday-sensuous,
meandering into ***** knots.
Every sweet-floral-fruity
custard you toss them in
is as well deserved as the
satin on your lashes and the
salve that slicks your
orbicular body.

Waiting
will always be for me the most effective
(albeit the most frustrating)
of all the means of time travel.
You won't find me in those new fangled machines.
(You don't know when you'll end up.)
Just leave me be.
I'll wait now and see you later.

On the dusty slopes where there's still cowpokes, where there's yet more sky than land,
In the Big Sky State, back in thirty-eight, they were hiring at Fort Peck Dam.

In the open skies where I get my highs, past the spill-way and the fort,
A small town looms where there's more saloons than a feller like me could sport.

Came a Texan bloke who was almost broke (and I'll tell you right now, it was I).
I was looking for work, something of my sort, but I'd take any job to get by.

At a cowpoke's inn where I wet my chin, and while standing at the bar,
I watched a girl who could dance and whirl to the tunes of a wrangler's guitar.

Every eye in the bar watched her jiggle and jar, not a one who wouldn't make her his own.
But, in spite of her shaking, I could see she was taken by a gent who sat back all alone.

And I saw in his face that he felt disgrace, Saw the jealousy seethe in his eyes.
Though he sat in disdain, and he never complained, his displeasure was easily surmised.

In a place where legends and tales abound, where circumstance rules the day,
Shaping men's schemes and frustrating their dreams, Till their willpower has no sway.

Where fate may run contrary to plan, frustrating our deepest desire.
It has often been shown that the life of a man can be changed when his soul's set afire.

I can only tell what I know is true , what I saw with my very own eyes.
But the man, alone in the back of the room, had a murderous look in his eyes.

I left the bar and went up to my room; tomorrow I'd be working for sure.
And the music still played, but the blare and the din didn't keep me from sleeping till four.

The morning came fast, and now working, at last, (for they'd hired me to work on the dam).
I worked and I toiled and I know my blood boiled pouring concrete for old Uncle Sam.

I gave no thought at all of the evening before; soon the whistle blew, ending my day.
And a drink with the crew seemed the right thing to do. I still had a few bucks I could pay.

At a bar back in town where we all bought a round The gossips were whispering a tale.
It seems like the girl, who knew how to whirl, was being held down at the jail.

A body was found under two feet of ground in a newly dug patch of her lawn.
And no one was missed from the residents list but her husband, nowhere to be found.

The body was new, but was nothing to view. It was burned beyond recognition.
Folks came forward to tell of a marriage from hell, of suspicions and speculation.

They had argued and fought over things she had bought. Some said he had threatened to leave her.
And a weapon was found laying there on the ground. He'd been slain with her brand new meat cleaver.

It was open and shut, they'd arrested her ****. and there weren't any clues to redeem her.
The gossip was keen and vicious and mean. Every woman in town would demean her.

Then a telegram came and I got on a train to a Texas town on the divide.
Where my father, quite ill, was having a spell and I wanted to be by his side.

I was well out of town when I happened to hear a railroad detective named Sam
Tell a story, quite odd, of a hobo he thought was asleep, by the track near the dam.

He had gone off to chase the *** from his place and had tossed a road flare on his bed.
But he fell to surprise when the *** failed to rise; and approaching, he found him quite dead.

He left him to burn so the next one would learn that "Old Sam was the king of this road."
But when he went back there was nothing but track, not a sign of the *** or his load.

Then I had an idea, for it made me recall what I'd seen that first night at the inn.
In the look on the face of a fellow disgraced, who had now vanished into the wind.

Had he buried that *** and planted some clues, then departed on this same train?
Sent his wife off to jail and covered his trail-- to start his life over again?

When I was chief creative officer for Liz Claiborne Inc., I spent a good amount of time on the road hosting fashion shows highlighting our brands. Our team made a point of retaining models of various sizes, shapes and ages, because one of the missions of the shows was to educate audiences about how they could look their best. At a Q&A; after one event in Nashville in 2010, a woman stood up, took off her jacket and said, with touching candour: “Tim, look at me. I’m a box on top, a big, square box. How can I dress this shape and not look like a fullback?” It was a question I’d heard over and over during the tour: Women who were larger than a size 12 always wanted to know, How can I look good, and why do designers ignore me?

At New York Fashion Week, which began Thursday, the majority of American women are unlikely to receive much attention, either. Designers keep their collections tightly under wraps before sending them down the runway, but if past years are any indication of what’s to come, plus-size looks will be in short supply. Sure, at New York Fashion Week in 2015, Marc Jacobs and Sophie Theallet each featured a plus-size model and Ashley Graham debuted her plus-size lingerie line. But these moves were very much the exception, not the rule.

I love the American fashion industry, but it has a lot of problems and one of them is the baffling way it has turned its back on plus-size women. It’s a puzzling conundrum. The average American woman now wears between a size 16 and a size 18, according to new research from Washington State University. There are 100 million plus-size women in America, and, for the past three years, they have increased their spending on clothes faster than their straight-size counterparts. There is money to be made here ($20.4 billion (U.S.), up 17 per cent from 2013). But many designers — dripping with disdain, lacking imagination or simply too cowardly to take a risk — still refuse to make clothes for them.

In addition to the fact that most designers max out at size 12, the selection of plus-size items on offer at many retailers is paltry compared with what’s available for a size 2 woman. According to a Bloomberg analysis, only 8.5 per cent of dresses on Nordstrom.com in May were plus-size. At J.C. Penney’s website, it was 16 per cent; Nike.com had a mere five items — total.

I’ve spoken to many designers and merchandisers about this. The overwhelming response is, “I’m not interested in her.” Why? “I don’t want her wearing my clothes.” Why? “She won’t look the way that I want her to look.” They say the plus-size woman is complicated, different and difficult, that no two size 16s are alike. Some haven’t bothered to hide their contempt. “No one wants to see curvy women” on the runway, Karl Lagerfeld, head designer of Chanel, said in 2009. Plenty of mass retailers are no more enlightened: under the tenure of chief executive Mike Jeffries, Abercrombie & Fitch sold nothing larger than a size 10, with Jeffries explaining that “we go after the attractive, all-American kid.”

This a design failure and not a customer issue. There is no reason larger women can’t look just as fabulous as all other women. The key is the harmonious balance of silhouette, proportion and fit, regardless of size or shape. Designs need to be reconceived, not just sized up; it’s a matter of adjusting proportions. The textile changes, every seam changes. Done right, our clothing can create an optical illusion that helps us look taller and slimmer. Done wrong, and we look worse than if we were naked.

Have you shopped retail for size 14-plus clothing? Based on my experience shopping with plus-size women, it’s a horribly insulting and demoralizing experience. Half the items make the body look larger, with features like ruching, box pleats and shoulder pads. Pastels and large-scale prints and crazy pattern-mixing abound, all guaranteed to make you look infantile or like a float in a parade. Adding to this travesty is a major department-store chain that makes you walk under a marquee that reads “WOMAN.” What does that even imply? That a “woman” is anyone larger than a 12 and everyone else is a girl? It’s mind-boggling.

Project Runway, the design competition show on which I’m a mentor, has not been a leader on this issue. Every season we have the “real women” challenge (a title I hate), in which the designers create looks for non-models. The designers audibly groan, though I’m not sure why; in the real world, they won’t be dressing a seven-foot-tall glamazon.

This season, something different happened: Ashley Nell Tipton won the contest with the show’s first plus-size collection. But even this achievement managed to come off as condescending. I’ve never seen such hideous clothes in my life: bare midriffs; skirts over crinoline, which give the clothes, and the wearer, more volume; see-through skirts that reveal *******; pastels, which tend to make the wearer look juvenile; and large-scale floral embellishments that shout “prom.” Her victory reeked of tokenism. One judge told me that she was “voting for the symbol” and that these were clothes for a “certain population.” I said they should be clothes all women want to wear. I wouldn’t dream of letting any woman, whether she’s a size 6 or a 16, wear them. Simply making a nod toward inclusiveness is not enough.

This problem is difficult to change. The industry, from the runway to magazines to advertising, likes subscribing to the mythology it has created of glamour and thinness. Look at Vogue’s “Shape Issue,” which is ostensibly a celebration of different body types but does no more than nod to anyone above a size 12. For decades, designers have trotted models with bodies completely unattainable for most women down the runway. First it was women so thin that they surely had eating disorders. After an outcry, the industry responded by putting young teens on the runway, girls who had yet to exit puberty. More outrage.

But change is not impossible. There are aesthetically worthy retail successes in this market. When helping women who are size 14 and up, my go-to retailer is Lane Bryant. While the items aren’t fashion with a capital F, they are stylish (but please avoid the cropped pants — always a no-no for any woman). And designer Christian Siriano scored a design and public relations victory after producing a look for Leslie Jones to wear to the “Ghostbusters” red-carpet premiere. Jones, who is not a diminutive woman, had tweeted in despair that she couldn’t find anyone to dress her; Siriano stepped in with a lovely full-length red gown.

Several retailers that have stepped up their plus-size offerings have been rewarded. In one year, ModCloth doubled its plus-size lineup. To mark the anniversary, the company paid for a survey of 1,500 American women ages 18 to 44 and released its findings: Seventy-four per cent of plus-size women described shopping in stores as “frustrating”; 65 per cent said they were “excluded.” (Interestingly, 65 per cent of women of all sizes agreed that plus-size women were ignored by the fashion industry.) But the plus-size women surveyed also indicated that they wanted to shop more. More than 80 per cent said they’d spend more on clothing if they had more choices in their size and nearly 90 per cent said they would buy more if they had trendier options. According to the company, its plus-size shoppers place 20 per cent more orders than its straight-size customers.

Online start-up Eloquii, initially conceived and then killed by The Limited, was reborn in 2014. The trendy plus-size retailer, whose top seller is an over-the-knee boot with four-inch heels and extended calf sizes, grew its sales volume by more than 165 per cent in 2015.

Despite the huge financial potential of this market, many designers don’t want to address it. It’s not in their vocabulary. Today’s designers operate within paradigms that were established decades ago, including anachronistic sizing. (Consider the fashion show: It hasn’t changed in more than a century.) But this is now the shape of women in this nation, and designers need to wrap their minds around it. I profoundly believe that women of every size can look good. But they must be given choices. Separates — tops, bottoms — rather than single items like dresses or jumpsuits always work best for the purpose of fit. Larger women look great in clothes skimming the body, rather than hugging or cascading. There’s an art to doing this. Designers, make it work.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

When God created me He knew what he would see,
Someone that wasn't perfect or in heaven I would be.
He put me here on earth to lead this life I live,
Learning as I go giving what I can give.
He knew that I would stumble and sometimes even fall,
He knew that I would suffer and for Jesus Christ I would call.
He's had a plan for me from the very first day,
Frustrating times will be but soon I would see his way.
The love I have inside me all the good that I must do,
This does not go unnoticed and I know He sees it too.
I thank you God, for all you do even when my heart strays from You.
My heart is yours, forever more until the day I'm at your door.

His wails put a knife to my chest
He can't comprehend the world
Where his mother went
Why his father is never to be seen
Why his family is struggling
Why strangers are so mean
Why school is frustrating
Why danger is obscene

His smile jammed the knife deep down
His mother is trying to get back up
But the only thing coming back up
Is her delayed dinner
He can't express himself
Without making a scene
He just wants to be normal
His normality is aware to me

His struggle pulled the knife out
I tell him that I love him
I laugh at his jokes
I pull his legs into bed at night
I check on his medication
I-I-I
How self centered I am
I need to try harder, stop his confused cries

His future helped me close my eyes
Say good night to the helpless
This strange little boy
That I describe in this rhyme
He is my brother
Can't even tell the time
But he can stand tall
When the world decides to fall

So your motorbike gets you from A to B
With no hiccups or fuckups or stops in between,

No ponderous walking just to **** time
Or impromptu chats with a friendly old guy,

An excuse just ramble and gather your thoughts
Explore a some places or visit old haunts

If you find something new in an old part of town,
You find that there's worse things than sometimes breakingdown.

I admit it's frustrating to get to work late,
Or have your dinner plans foiled whilst out on a date.

But When friends say "just get a bike that works'
I reply "one that doesn't sometimes has its perks."

i cannot write anything
it's all in my head
and i can see it but
it won't come out

no matter how hard i push
my mind is constipated
and laxatives aren't helping
i'm not sure what to do

i can write ******* and
tell myself that's good enough
but it's not and it's so
******* frustrating

and depressing how
unhappy i am with my creative self
i am not creating enough
and i feel stagnant and stuck
no matter how much **** i use
my mind is still a dry desert
and it's painful to keep trying

You had your words and I had mine.
But where your words were beautifully crafted,
mine were a jumbled mess.

“I don’t know why...”

Wait.

That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever written.
I know exactly–
Why I don’t write.
Why I can’t write.
Why I’m terrified to write.

Every time I open my laptop–
I’m loading that hollow point bullet into
the cylinder, giving it a casual last roll,
and pressing the muzzle to my temple

Every time I push my pen to the paper–
I’m finishing up that thirteenth rung on a
noose and slipping it tightly over my throat,
standing at the edge of the seat, waiting to take a step.

Every time I think–
Every time I write–
I hesitate.

And you make it sound so simple.

You can pull a beautiful phrase from the skyline
and have a masterpiece in minutes,
while I set here scheming for hours;
trying to expel just a word or two from my consciousness.

It really ****** me off that you can do that.

You know?

The corporate sports shop has erased the swim section with snow sports
and I can't find those jagged ear plugs I like there
must go back local to where I got half a wet suit
made by O'Niel, the inventor from my home town
and I remember a friend who was a great skier and even
better ski ***, and he hung out with Tommy Moe in Wyoming and
he almost put his eye out going down a Black Diamond ***** ******
and maybe that's brave, but I don't think so really because true bravery in
my mind is rarely physical, and most commonly, but perhaps rarely mental
as I see the Christmas shoppers like every year doing the same things and dysfunctional
families everywhere pretending to get along when they'd rather **** each other
understanding why, like Freud first tried to show us, in his strange 19th century way
has led to a situation where everyone could understand why, what really drives them
and so few do, because it is scary and expensive and long term and frustrating and you have to go back
over and over and realize you are doing the same **** thing over and over and it's worse than
school when you were a kid, when it was just over and over and a teacher blaring at you until
you finally got it and moved on, because that can really happen.  You can get it and move
on and you won't need the salve of the alcohol or the forty big screen TVs or endless ballgames
watched as if they held some kind of key to a special universe and if just one more game, like one more quarter in that slot machine, and what you are really running away from is yourself and your pain.
And I am different, it is true, because that inner journey to understanding is essential to me and
psychology is amazing, how the mind tries to protect us from ourselves by creating more distraction
when we all have that Black Diamond ***** to go down and it is scary and frustrating
and we may fall but in the end we will understand.  And that is the most important thing.

The sun was shining,
Pitch black, sending out rays of misery in a blinded realm of self hatred, casting a shadow even darker to trail a clear record.
A sun of darkness, made out of despair, casts it's light before the zenith, a day like any other, tiring, exhausting and frustrating.
The phantoms of the past linger around the streets, seemingly not noticing anything, the lack of light nor the constant agony this brings,
Perhaps it was just my sight, which tricked me into seeing everything as it was and thus the others hadn't noticed but a single, little thing.
I hide my truth behind a curtain of both a smile and a fake cheerful mood, put up with the last strengh my worn out fighting spirit has.
Once upon a love, the mornign glow used to be more than a sunrise,
It's brilliance unmatched, almost roaring as it illuminated the atmosphere while we were watching this scene unfold with awe!
This is how it should be, nothing more.
But when I knew the meaning of love you were already gone,
Dragged away by the chains of fate lead by time and left me as the sun was about to set and never truly come back as usual, darling.
You were my light.

~ Umi

The Hanbleceya.
The cry for a vision.
The Vision Quest.
The space between worlds.
In the presence of the Great Mystery.
I went down to the fire,
and she, the self I aim to be,
was not there.
I became her.
And maybe just for that moment on my blanket because I needed to be her.
She is on the eternal quest.
Forever in search,
forever seeking.
That magic I was hoping for did not emerge in the way I believed it would...
I let instead the Earth, and only her,
hear my screams.
Hear some deep agony within me,
maybe not even completely of my own.
Maybe the ancestral pains of the women who carried lives before me.
Red is the road to my heart,
is the color that bled out of me on the way up.
Dripping prayers down my legs,
each step became even more sacred.
Together, we sang our warrior song.
They are my amor, my comfort, my shelter, my warmth.
But on your blanket in your circle of prayers,
there is only you and the Creator.
You and the Great Mystery.
You and your fears, your pains, your demons.
You and your truths, your reasons, your prayers.
It is your choice whether to feed to thirst and hunger in your head,
or the hunger in your soul.
There is no greater pain than a soul not enacting its purpose,
its duty, its agreement with the Divine.
No greater pain.
And those screams that emerged from me,
from depths vast and deep,
was everything I ever let block me.
When we are broken open,
when we cry that deep soul cry,
we are breaking to let love and truth in,
we are watering our gardens.
So what magic am I believing was not present?
A vision may have not been shown to me,
but the courage of a single moment was.
To decide to not shut my eyes,
but to pray.
To offer compassions back to the Earth and take less for myself.
To not **** a single mosquito,
but rather walk off that blanket four days later marked with their persistence.
I watched their points enter my flesh
and saw their bodies fill with my blood.
Maybe they were extracting from me all that I no longer need.
And what itch is worse?
That of a red bump,
or that of the soul's need to incessantly scratch through its flesh suit to get to the core of its truth?
There were hours upon hours I let myself fall silent.
Listened to the sound of the woodpecker,
watched the spider crawl,
saw the turkey run.
They know how to be at home here.
And it is nothing grand that they do,
but they understand their purpose and place and they do not strive to feed and ego.
They do not "Ease God Out."
They are of God,
they are a God of their own.
So how do I remove myself from all the ******* of this world
if I do not place my being into the womb of Creation and sit?
The layers strip down,
the sun rises and sets and does so again.
I began to know before the sky would lighten that the morning was coming soon just by the sounds of the forrest.
The great trees barely swayed and the Earth was uprooting.
What am I doing here?
The days were long and hard and filled with a frustrating buzzing in my ears.
Buzzing like all the nonsensical thoughts we have on a daily basis.
If only our ears would buzz and ring every time we had a thought that backtracked us from our truths
and the inherent love that is within our beings.
If only we had the persistence of the mosquito that does not,
will not stop until it is filled with the one nectar it was meant to live on.
There were moments of bliss and moments I felt anxiety bubble up within.
Such a rare form of myself,
a piece of me I do not know too well.
I wanted to crawl out of my skin and be gone.
Be wind, be ether, be smoke.
Be gone.
And then they came,
bearing compassion.
Just a single sip of water.
Just a little.
They handed me that cup and I just cried.
Cried from the depths of my being.
"Do I even deserve this?"
And I let some moments pass,
held that cup in my hands and prayed in the form of tears.
That water,
that precious gift bearing life,
it touched my lips and made its way into my being.
And all become calm.
I am here for a purpose,
on this blanket, I mean.
I am here and meant to be no where but here.
And gently they spoke of the 6 pointed white star flowers surrounding me.
Not to me,
but a message for me.
A reminder of the beauty all around,
if I would only just look.
There I was,
sitting upon the hands of Creation.
If I had just stopped to listen,
stopped to breathe,
maybe I would have understood that on my own.
But that is why we tie that red prayer hung to our Ancestors.
He said,
"that prayer is your reminder to come back."
So for the next 360 days until I sit upon my blanket again,
the only prayer is to remember what I learned on that Mountain.
To remember what a blessing it is to drink a sip of water,
to be alone,
to look not into the eyes of another,
but only see the beauty of Creation.
I went out there wanting to be silent.
To just listen to what the world had to speak to me,
to shut out the voice in my head,
but there were moments that I could not hold back the words and prayers from my throat,
moments I needed to send my voice up or else I swore I would get up off that blanket and just walk away.
Moments I swore I would have filled the Earth with my screams again.
And when I spoke,
it was with such softness.
Maybe to not disrupt the frequency that Mountain has known long before Creator ever chose that spot for me to pray.
Maybe because when I spoke I barely recognized my own voice.
Because when you speak to Creation,
it is the truest version of yourself whose voice rises up from the very depths of your soul.
This is the voice that Creator knows.
And I just need to say I'm sorry that if for any moment I used my voice not pray
or to talk myself back into my heart and out of my head.
I'm sorry if I wasted a single moment on that Mountain.
The minutes seem so long when you're out there,
but now as I'm back home,
I'm wishing I could have just a few moments back on my blanket.
That I could have just one more opportunity to pray.
I would say to the Creator my name,
I would say please help me because I am struggling.
Please help me because  just want to make the best out of my life.
Please help me because I want to make sure I am on the right path to my purpose.
Please help me because I never want to know a life without you,
without prayer, without this Red Road.
Just one more time I want to speak those truths and let my tears become offerings of myself to the Earth.
But that is why we tie that prayer in Red.
Because I can go back.
I will go back and again be given the holy space to send my voice up and pray,
to cry,
to fall into silence,
to watch the sun set and rise again.
And I can stop now and breath.
I can stop and close my eyes and be on my blanket.
I can smell the freshness of Earth and the copal cloud of smoke.
I can pray and cry with myself on that blanket,
because there is a piece of me that will always be there.

I dreamed of thee again last night-so frustrating. I still miss thee. I have to admit that. I can no longer deny it. I still want thee back. I want thee back. My thee, o, my thee, Vladimir! In my mind I keep but playing those scenes over and over again; those scenes full of temptations-and breaths gasping more freshness under the sheets of our romantic air-which are no other than the beautiful, picturesque paintings of the days of our togetherness. Those rapturous paintings-sketched carefully by the jealous winds-outside of my bedchamber, wherein adjacent to the rolling fireside thou would caress my hair and smile at me with that serene blueness of thy eyes. And how as soon as those moments came, I would close my eyes, and lay my head against thy cleavage-and its steady, luminous heartbeat; and flew I through the wings of enthralled unconsciousness-as though I was floating in the sky; and then believe would I, that yon bubble of sophisticated happiness would never end. But thou! Thou ruined everything-and that idyllic, idyllic blue castle of mine as soon as thou walked away. Ah! And didst I cry back then, cry whenever I woke up and found that thou wert gone, and it was only thy scents that were left all over me. What a horrible memory! The remembrance of thy blissful eyes-o, a pair of majestic blue eyes!-and thy golden hair, flowing smoothly against mine on that tranquil night, is but a wealth of fondness too dear, yet unbearable-to me. Full of tears are my eyes, as I am writing t'is sorrowful passage, that might still mean nothing-nothing, to thee. But I doth need to be honest! It might just be too late to say this, but I need thee, Vladimir. I need thee! Thou art the only miracle that has ever happened to me, since I first heaved my steps onto this land: this foreign land with a stash of autumnal stars grinning at us from the sleepy eyes of the sky. The sky-o the sky, whose innocent blueness is just as handsome as thy eyes! Thou consoled my fear, and relieved my sarcastic anxiety-in those first, first days! How thou silently-yet joyfully, entered my heart! My prince, my soul. How I want us to be back together-embracing each other under the clouds' mesmerizing lullaby. I who can never love him-the one everyone dear to me so excitedly raves at. No-never, although from the same kin is he, as thou art, with that flash of wild black eyes running vivaciously at every appearance of my being. And those queries he always puts-yes, on my series of daily runabouts, and keen interests in which I immerse myself during my solitudes. A smile so charming then he shows-but still, unable is he to bring my heart to galloping excitements, nor shake my soul with adorable passion, like thou didst! And no! He is but no lover I wish for-as far as I'th ventured to recognise, as in my heart still hides thy name, dwelling so quietly with bursts of violent fascination. And the red blushes it sends to my cheeks-whenever I think of thee. Vladimir! The prince to my love-today and yesterday-for whom my affection shalt never fade; and the sole king to my being-all through the year, and the remaining hours of my night and day-for whom my soul was duly made. O Vladimir! I love thee, I love thee! Come back and cherish thy days here, wander back into my heart-and celebrate this innocent mirth of ours, just like we once had before-with our hands together, whilst thy heart in mine, amidst t'is silent afternoon-and ah, under tonight's marvelous moon.

Ask me what it feels like to be dead inside. Go ahead. Ask.
I know you're curious.

It's like swimming in circles.

You can't see the shore and you can't see past the surface of the water. You're moving but you're not making any progress and it's frustrating. Your muscles are on fire and you're hungry but you keep going because what else is there to do? You could stop and just wade but you know that if you do that you'll give up that much quicker. You wonder what it would be like to surrender and let the water wrap you in it's unknowable depths for the rest of time. You wonder how deep it is and what it's like down there but you figure you'll end up there inevitably someday anyway so you keep going for the time being.

You can change the way you move through the water and how fast you go but you never stop swimming. There's a variety of weather and waves you experience. Sometimes it's nice and the water is calm and you can forget about the emptiness you feel inside and do the backstroke to feel the sunlight on your cheeks but other times it's cold and the choppy waves smash into your face and sting your eyes and all you can focus on is your breathing over the burning in your joints. Nevertheless, you swim and swim and swim without any destination, waiting for the next change to come.

You do a lot of thinking. You wonder what it must be like to feel anything other than longing and discontentment and exasperation. You ponder the big questions and answer the little ones and you try to fill the void inside you with complicated concepts and pretty words. You thoroughly analyze yourself, coming to terms with everything that makes you what you are. You're not happy but not sad either. You're not even somewhere in between. You gave up crying a long time ago because it never helped anything but you still laugh when you get the chance. You're very practical and proud of your cognitive abilities but you also suspect that they are the reason why you don't experience emotions the way other people seem to. You once read "Those who are sensible about love are incapable of it" somewhere and you think just maybe that applies to all the feelings you don't feel. This almost makes you feel distraught, or maybe you just want it to. Regardless, you contemplate anything and everything to distract yourself from the never-ending circles.

You swim and swim and swim and swim because that's all you can do and all you want
all you've ever wanted
is to feel alive
but you don't know how.

And that, my friends, is what it feels like to not feel anything at all.
Swimming in circles.

A razor is my nemesis, because the blades do not behave
Gouging cuts into my skin, that is the path they pave
But it is unavoidable, I have become a bathroom slave
To rid myself of excess hair, from a shave that I don't crave

Ever since the birth of man, it goes back many years
A growth around your lip and chin, extending to your ears
It may go down particularly well, among the bents and queers !
I'd rather have a smoother face, to avoid Ducky's and Dears

Why do men want ****** hair, why do they want a beard
Bits of stubble sticking out, a design that's rough and weird
A Goatee isn't very good, it's cattle that's not reared
You wouldn't get tickled or scratched, if beards had not appeared

Okay some guys might look alright, when they are neat and trim
Scruffy ones they just look bad, and some are rather grim
I don't want hairs growing on my legs, or any other limb
Nice smooth skin is my preference, and it's not a passing whim

There is just one problem, something I would love to ditch
Hair removal is a pain, and it's an evolution glitch
When the morning comes along, I have that same old itch
Having to shave is immanent, and a *******

How many ****** shaves, does a man have to endure
Eventually your skin goes dry, from this old daily chore
You get cut far too often, I don't want it anymore
Razor blades no longer work, and that's a shaving flaw

Girls complain about their periods, it must be so frustrating
With all that blood just seeping out, when you are menstruating
You wouldn't like it daily, there is a period of waiting
It only happens once a month, so it's not as irritating

I'd rather shave twelve times a year, without anymore hair traces
No cuts and grazes for a month, in many different places
Unscrupulous razor companies, would have no more hairs and graces
Hairy smiles would be wiped off, from their stupid corporate faces

A close shave does not exist, I think it's a fare bet
That manufactures cut your throat, with electric dry and wet
All the claims of the best, that a man can get
Sharp shavers are a fabrication, and that includes Gillette

The cheaper brands are just as bad, shops own brand or BIC
You may as well tape a knife, to a piece of stick
Are potato peelers any sharper, would they be a valid pick
Would chipped skin be as bad, or just get on your wick

One shave is not sufficient, you have to do it twice
There's always bits left behind, which isn't very nice
I would've tried the No No, an expensive hair device
Razor blades and shavers, have such a high tagged price

It makes me cross and angry, because there is no reward
When buying beauty products, which they say you can afford
Why cant you have a body switch, or a desired level cord
So you can turn of your hair, and sod Wilkinson Sword

Excess hair I do not want, except for on my head
Is stress the cause of going thin, when it begins to shed
Would it not be better, coming of your face instead
Shaving would then be reduced, and not something to dread

Many men go through the curse, of losing it on top
The older that you become, your head hairs for the chop
A full crown is all I want, why take away my mop
I didn't want a bad harvest, by losing half my crop

The only place I wanted it, I've lost my style and flair
Why does a bald patch appear, why does your bonce go bare
Is it my comeuppance, with the creation of a glare
All I want from follicles, is my head full of hair

If you want to have a beard, then that is fare enough
Don't be mistaken for a *****, by looking like a scruff
I don't want a hairy face, or stubble that is rough
Or a weird beard with scraggy parts, or any yuk *** fluff

Some men just let beards grow, and maybe that's just crazy
It's not as though they look sweet, or as pretty as a daisy
Personal hygiene may not count, if they are always lazy
To me it isn't fashionable, it makes you look old and hazy

Who wants to be a yeti, but perhaps it is too late
And wild men roaming in the woods, is evolutions own cruel fate
No matter how much I shave, it's the scratchy bits I hate
Wasted shaves when hair returns, why does it lay in wait

How much has man evolved, how much as man progressed
Personally I think the state of hair, has radically regressed
It's based on my own experience, so perhaps I am obsessed ?
Who wants a hairy monkey, when your naked and undressed ?

There is a smooth advantage, when you are misbehaving
A kiss feels much more sensual, without the crazy paving
This is all that drives me, although it is enslaving
Even with the nice things, I'm not craving for a shaving

I used to think of my parents as divorced.

Legally, they were not. They lived in the same house, had the same last names, and on every legal document it stated that they were married.

Though it did not feel like that.

They lived in the same house, but they did not share the same bed. They had the same last names, but their morals were so different they seemed like strangers. They were technically married, but it felt as if they have been divorced for years.

As a child this brooding question had been lingering in my mind that has yet to be answered.

Why do people stay when they are supposed to leave?
Or why do people leave when they are supposed to stay?

I asked my mother why she did not leave my father yet, and she said it was because of my siblings and I. Though, the way she said it seemed as if it was an excuse for something bigger. Every time I would push her to answer my question, she would scold me for being too curious and repeat the same saying , “Curiosity killed the cat,”.
But I was not a cat. I was a confused child who has been through too many years of her parents fighting for no reason or too many reasons.

I grew older, my parents were still together, and the question still never left my mind. Before I knew it, relationships were sprouting all around me. All my friends changed their relationship statues to Taken, my sister started talking about boys more often, and every question out of everyone’s mouth was who was single and who was on the market. It sounded as if everyone became merchants waiting eagerly until a new, rare, product was in stock.

Of course, people fell out of relationships, and I realized it was the same way of falling out of love. It’s just as easy as falling in it, and thats what people are afraid of. I started asking around my question again.

Why do people stay when they are supposed to leave?
Why do people leave when they are supposed to stay?

And the answer remained in the format of excuses. It was always because of someone else leaving first, or the usual “thats just how things are,”response. It was so frustrating.

Out of bitter frustration, I decided to figure it out myself. I allowed myself to become very close with once a mutual friend. We shared secrets and told each other embarrassing stories we never told anyone before. We went out of our way just to see each other and even called each other Soul Mates. I found myself forgetting that this was all an experiment, and started to believe that we were, in fact, Soul Mates. We started to talk about getting into the same colleges, and moving in with each other while in college and after. We started planning road trips that would take two months and even introduced ourselves to each others parents.

Then that person left. Just as easily as they came.

It took me by sudden surprise, and I became immobilized for a while due to shock. I realized that it hurt, giving all of yourself to someone and letting them walk away with all you gave them as if you’re just a nostalgic memory, or a forgotten trinket. My question surfaced again, with much more rage and hurt this time.

Why do people stay when they are supposed to leave?
Why do people leave when they are supposed to stay?
Why do people leave?
Why do people always leave?

In my final conclusion of my hypothesis, I have realized that people leave because they were not supposed to stay in the first place. Everyone and Everything is temporary. I do not think the point of life is to find your soul mate. I do not think its to find someone to spend your whole life with. I think its to try and change every persons life you encounter with. It does not have to be nuclear, it could be really subtle. But change it in some way, for the better hopefully.

I think my parents are staying together for the better. I hope so, at least.

Everytime a guy asks me what I prefer in a woman
They normally ask me if I like the front or the back
But honestly I think class is what's lacking
I don't judge a woman by her body
I think her personality is really what matters
I know we men would be angry if a girl asked another girl if she liked guys with a Maserati or a Ferrari
Not all of them are about money
That's when you know if she's really your honey
She doesn't except to take your money and run
You can get fired from your job and have your car get towed
And she'd still offer you a ride home
Isn't that funny
She wants you to get the hint and you still react like nothing has happened
Ain't it frustrating to be a girl
Not wanting to come off as desperate, but you desperately want him to see
What it could really be
Going through all the crap and still wanting to be with him
That's a real woman
That's what I want
A strong woman who puts up with my stupidity and still sticks around
With no possible reward to be found
The real jackpot is having her instead
Any woman like her is a lottery
Just make sure you treat her right
And be there for her when she's giving birth to your children
If you ask me, I wouldn't of made it so painful
But the pain is a little easier
When you're holding her hand and refusing to let it go
She'll remember that forever
Only being glad she decided to have kids with you
Just remember that when you **** her off
And you're sitting there with dozens of beer bottles on the floor with a few empty Doritos bags
Eating till you become dizzy
Regretting that you made her mad
And she let's you suffer with no response on your apology calls
We all make mistakes
But make sure letting her run away from your life isn't one of them

October 18th, 1995. I was born a little more than a month early; Ma always says it’s because I’d thought of a good joke and couldn’t wait to share it with everyone. Dad says it was because I was too hungry.

Yes, my name is Harsh but I promise I’m a nice enough person. Harsh means happiness in Sanskrit and I’ve always worn that name tag proudly. I use the username "harshhappens" as an alternative to the unfortunate saying "**** happens." Happiness happens, too.

I’ve got my father’s temperament and my mother’s smile, but I love my mother’s temperament and my father’s smile wouldn’t fit my face. I look at the two of them and see a patched, two-tone mirror of myself. I’m scared of what I am taking from them and what I’m not.

My childhood was Pokemon and Legos, chocolate chip pancakes and milk, hugs from my grandparents and bedtime stories with mom. Oh, how I loved to read. If books were grape juice, I was an alcoholic.

I’ve got my share of adolescent acne, the bags under my eyes hold the weights of my sins and I’ve already got smile crinkles about my plain, dark eyes. My hair is usually combed to a side and turns into a beard as you trace down my sideburns. I dress like a trendy 80-year-old psychology professor sometimes, other times I dress like a wannabe-tumblr-model. Oh well.

My favorite colors are maroon and grey. I’m also colorblind. Go figure.

I’m going to school to help people and hopefully save them from themselves. Problems of the mind are at the root of our existence, and will continue to terrorize victims no matter how much money they earn, no matter how much *** they have, no matter how lovely their spouses are, no matter how big their houses are. When people go to sleep at night, they deserve to have peace of mind. I’d like to help with that. I know too many people who can't take it. I knew too many people who couldn't take it. No one deserves to go through that alone.

I’m a five-foot-ten-inch sculpture made without wax. If I’m nothing to you I’ll at least be genuine. I’m pockmarked and scarred in my own ways.

Music runs through my veins, along with endorphins and an appalling lack of iron. What I listen to can be like honey and sometimes it’s a hurricane. I’ve shed tears to music, it’s been a part of me for ages.

I don’t sleep very well.

I am an introvert in the most proper sense of the term. Sometimes I get oversensitive, and being with too many people or around certain people can get very overwhelming and intense, I tend to shut down in these instances. Just make eye contact with me and I’ll open up to you, I promise. I don’t like parties. I’d much rather sip a mug of coffee in my basement with a canvas in front of me and paint all down my jeans, or sit by my window and write my heart away. I’d rather take a long drive with the love of my life or take her to dinner. I don’t take pride in this solitude, I hate it most of the time. I wish I enjoyed myself at parties.

I’m scared of heights and of knives in the wrong hands. I’m also terrified of the dark.

I’m a hopeful romantic, it’ll take a lot for you to take hope away from me. I’ve been blessed with a girlfriend that is genuinely the best thing to ever happen to me. She’s the kind of girl that you work hard for but you know she’s **** worth it. She’s the kind of girl that teaches you things both about the world outside your bedroom and about the person inside your heart. She’s the kind of girl that makes you write poetry. I am plenty ******* up in my own way, but no one else can ever love the way I do; let that be a vice or virtue.

You could probably buy my soul off me for some chocolate. Or some nice lobster. Or mashed potatoes. I'm just a very hungry person.

It’s too late for my parent’s praise to mean anything to me, I needed it earlier. I live with a constant doubt that you can call self-consciousness or self-doubt. You can quote Freud all you want. I need constant reassurance that I’m worth anything to anyone and everyone and I look for it desperately. Sometimes when I get really bad I just want to hear a reason why I’m worth listening to. I am constantly trying to convince myself that I’m good enough. It’s frustrating for both me and my loved ones. I’m 150 pounds of waiting for someone to tell me that I try hard enough and that I’m all they need.

The best compliment anyone has ever given me was from my girlfriend. She said “I love your mind.”

I write because of my girlfriend. She woke up this primordial part of me that really just likes to put a pen to paper.

So, hi there. I’m Harsh. Nice to meet you.

Sometimes on the hardest of days,
I bear nothing but the softest thoughts of you.
Thoughts so rousing, they send adrenaline speeding down my highways,
stopping for nothing until every inch of me melts.
This isn’t your average fight or flight;
it's a fight that's for you, and a flight that's with you
to a place where the birds and the bees can't even reach.
For most, my heart can be a stone wall surrounded by a backbiting moat,
but somehow when you bring yourself to it,
the draw bridge gives way to you every time.
It’s frustrating; I have no control over what my heart desires,
but for some reason, it chose you the moment yours played hopscotch with mine.
Skipping beats is only the tip of the iceberg:
I could bleed out my entire fountain of youth if that’s what it takes.
And yeah, if you scale it up to the waters of the world,
my fountain will make only a single drop,
but I’ll be ****** if that drop doesn’t pass through
all the flaming hoops it takes to land on your lips.  
I will make sure that you never forget the taste,
and the ripples it forms shall never lie still in you.
Ripples that in time will manifest into incredible waves
that will alter the very ones your mind creates.
It’s said that the brain waves of love and insanity are identical to one another,
and it just so happens I have a longboard that can fit the both of us.
I’ve never been that great at love, but I’ve always been the best at insanity,
and if you ever lose your balance,
my hands will always catch you before you’re ever out of reach.
So what are you waiting for? The water’s fine.
So paddle on over to a place I like to call "existence",
and let’s ride the swell of this swollen heart.

I think, at least some of us, fall in love instantly without even knowing it. And the time between then and the point where we actually admit it to ourselves, is more about acceptance, either social or personal, of how long it should take to "get there".

How else would you explain that once you know you're in love with someone its almost impossible to remember a time when you weren't in love with them.

The downside of this theory is that should things not work out, its so ******* ******* hard to get back to a time before, a time when you weren't in love with them.

And maybe we never do. Maybe we never fully recover.

Initially it's the immediate changes that carry the most pain. No morning greetings on your phone, no shared nonsense during the day, the kind of nonsense only couples share, the empty bed... the feeling of once again being alone.

In time though those moments get forgotten, or at least replaced by new routines that help avoid them until enough of the pieces are back together that they don't hurt anymore. You no longer have to fight the urge to say good morning the moment you wake up; going for coffee no longer feels like an inside joke you have to share; going to sleep is no longer something that follows a two hour phone call.

But the bigger stuff, the truly great memories, they never go away. We find ourselves looking back on them with fondness, for comfort, proof that it did happen, that we were once that happy, that for a while at least we felt like we had it all. And sometimes we'll know why it ended and sometimes we wont; and as frustrating as either of these scenarios are, we'll accept that it doesn't really matter.

As long as we get to keep those moments.

It's those moments that make me question whether or not we ever truly stop loving someone. No matter how hurt we feel, no matter how much we feel they hurt us, deep down, if we're honest, we all have those moments, even for those who hurt us most. Sure they could be hidden behind bitterness, buried under blame, locked up behind the walls we let ourselves build as some kind of protection, but they're still there.

You're all still there.

I'm terribly lost

It seems that every fork
that I encounter
on this road of life
I choose the one
that puts me further from my goal

Everyone else seems to know where they're going
It's really quite frustrating.

Do I really have that bad a sense of direction?

I've been looking for you for years
The one I can give my heart to
It's here
in this box
all *******
with fancy twine and tissue paper.
It has a tag on it that says "From:  Hopelessly in Love"
I haven't filled out the To: yet

I will once I find you

I want to meet you
I want to become your friend
I want to fall in love
I want the feeling of your hand in mine
I want lazy summer days spent laying on the grass with you (just watching the clouds drift by)
I want frosty winter nights curled in a blanket with you (sipping hot cocoa in my arms)
I want to smile for no other reason than because
you are happy
I want to share your fears and sorrows because
no one should have
to bear them alone

I want to find the one
who is worthy of this affection
who is worthy of my time
who is worthy of my love

I will present my heart to you
when I find you

If I find you....

...I hope I find you