I preferred apathy
A quiet release
Of tension in my shoulders

I chose kindness
Accepting the guilt
It inevitably comes with

I mixed and matched
My mind, my soul, my heart
In a flurry of greys

I basked, unbothered
In a meaninglessness
Of my own creation

Take a step forward
The air is cold
And the grass soft to touch

i have written
hundreds of poems.
in reading them over,
i find that
i have written
only a little bit of
poetry.

the passing of time,
the seasons,
of scenery
and people,
have scarred me;
embittered me.
i am now a more rigid person.

i dismiss my older writing as
pretentious;
uninspired;
misguided.
i wonder if
i should suffer the same verdict
when i,
once more,
re-evaluate.

in light of such a thought,
i marvel at
how little poetry
can be squeezed from a single life.

Finding the flow
The balance
The art
Of fulfillment
And letting go
Knowing when to say yes
When to say no
Self care at its best
Proof that I’ve grown.

I’m right where I’m supposed to be
Right here, right now

Letting go
Letting go
Letting go
Of all that does not serve me
Of all that stunts my growth

Breathing in
Breathing in
Breathing in
Bravery
Patience
And compassion

To spread love and light
In the kindest of fashions.

these days
looking around the globe
one might believe that we are traveling in time

just in the wrong direction

regression as progress
seems to be
the dominant notion of the day
creating wannabes in various disguises
     populist czars, sultans, nationalists, dictators,
     assorted self-appointed saviors
     of their peoples’ wealth and health,
trumpeting fences, walls, tough immigration laws,
etc., etc.  
to keep out and silence all those aliens
     or invade their countries
      and eliminate them

     who otherwise are welcome
     as our partners in the global trade
     that seems to dominate the world of greed

so we can all be ourselves

     whatever that might mean

claiming to solve the problems of tomorrow
     with memories of yesterday
is not only hopeless but quite dangerous

do you remember
what that glorified past
actually was?

Where are you
That I’m lost
For you’re found

Eternal soul
Undercover
A salt bed

Can’t fit
Won’t regard
Refuse contact

I don’t
Become you
Instead hate

In my
Regard the
Ominous regret

Does it
Even matter
Any more

Thou're not worthy of better seasons
Make yourselves worthy
And then ye might receive

As school comes to an end, I decide to
spend the summertime with my instrument.
I read music theory for two hours,
but my hands yearn for the touch of six strings.
Fingers position themselves to stroke bliss.
But my phone’s troubled with recurring rings.

****, it was mom telling me I have class!
I raced for my backpack, and I told her:
I will not slack. Papers grew so lonely
without their folder to cuddle them close.
I couldn’t care to organize them cause
usually, I’d lay in my seat repose.

Ionic bonds? What do they even mean?
And what the heck is “double replacement”?
Okay, I should start paying attention.
I grasp the pen. I notice the tension.
As soon as I write, my hands start to shake.
I start over. Now hands begin to ache.

What in the world is happening to me?
Two words: I scream. Head jerks, and my legs shake.
It has to be a dream. It has to be!
Don’t want to move, but I have to take notes.
Why are random words bursting out my throat?  
I’ma be real. I need my mommy!

Class is over. I exclaim to mother:
my fingers refuse to stop tremoring.
And I’m getting these tics. What set it off?
First thing I do is reach for my guitar.
I can’t hold it. I can’t ******* grab it.
Eyes of terror stay written on my face.

The next day I was in a wheelchair.
I cannot look straight- straight up to the sky
or look in front and into people’s eyes.
My right-hand curves to the left. A tendon
sinks into my flesh, and my left fingers
cramp up from being intertwined like vines.

They are stiff. Hideous. These are not mine.
But it does get much better with some time.
I can walk again, talk again, and write.
But all good things come with downfalls, don’t they?
My brain disease will come at me with might.
And I refuse to give up on this fight.

There will be a time when I reach stage five.
And I know it won’t be a pretty sight.
I’m ready for what will happen to me.
Dearest guitar, please know you’re my heaven.
Why bother to fret? Cause’ when the time comes
I’ll see you again in a few seconds.