Tiny little reminders
Clogging my confidence
Defining my self

When the moon first met the stars,
Did she question
Whether or not
The
Amount
Of
Stars
Surrounding
Made her brighter?

make sure nothing is left outside of its boundaries,
which are both restrictive and comforting
like the love of a mother.

Add a little weight so that it is not only concrete in its existence
but its understandable
its executable
its a nice little pill we can all swallow and digest
a little burn in the stomach means that it’s really working

it is important all air pockets are filled in the box
we want no space to wander.
fill it with war
fill it with peace
the only box the two could ever coexist

When it’s totally full,
close the lid quickly
the longer the box is closed
the sooner you can put it away and reminisce.

store it away so that you can find it in twenty years and remember the feeling
the burn in your belly
the slight rose colored memories
when you wipe the dust of the box
it’s easy to remember what it all was
because the aged letters still read
the word for it all
“love”

The dance is beautiful
The rhythm of the universe pulses throughout
Intertwined with the sun and the moon and the stars
It is slow and elegant, without measure but limitless
The growth lives in a place intangible to the physical realities’
One in which dreams go to bathe in lush admiration and the whimsicality of existence
The  growth can be dangerous but worth the bloom
The slow movement like a ballerina with a lover
It is us, both existing and not
Dependent and singular
But it is the growth that we all depend
For the flower is beautiful.

It was like a scary dream
Childish fear brought to the surface,
Flush faced, wide eyed, the unfair advantage, still yet smoking and dripping in evidential residue.

The river singing it’s roaring song
Still the same.
Up above, the birds still perched,
Viewing the slaughter from above, with
A sort of grateful unexceptionalism.

How the world could continue
While this occurs, answered
only with boredom and indifference.

And when the flies began to gather,
The foresting neighbors began to collect, only then was left,
The fur still warm.

Horns the size of trees, yet
Gentle and innocent like a child’s swing.
Now sentenced to remain in the limbo, the
air, neither moving forwards or back,
then gone.

Only the body remains,
Unforeseen potential wasted with your intent.