Cherish the time
Set it to memory
Burn it into your soul
For it soon will be gone
As these sands of time
Pour out so quickly
Faster than we know
Leaving a hole
We're all waiting in line
With father times keeping
Life's ladder folds
At its choice of footholds
Cherish the time
Celebrate it freely
Ready, set, go
We're all going home

No one can measure
the end....
the time it takes for grief
to spend itself...

to melt like snow
in times of healing
to take its gentle leave
No one can measure
the tending time between the aching...
that grows
into the bones of soul
that grows
less
about the awful pain
  
It just sorta happens
like spring...

among the moments

You never really know anyone.
Need an example? Have a stay at in the psych ward.

The girl who caught my eye
after rolling up her sleeves to paint
started to cover scars until
I showed her mine.
She wrote song lyrics on her arms
to remind her that others feel the same way.

There is solidarity.

One girl with the cute afro
and anger issues
cried after yelling at one of the other girls.
She loved to do word searches.

Who says we are in control?

The little girl who bangs her head up against the wall
to rid herself of the demons
looks adorable with her fuzzy blanket
singing along to watching Disney movies on the couch.

Anyone can be effected.

One girl who had to learn to eat again,
wouldn't let you
hate on your own body.
She could
speak 3 languages
and draw like a goddess.

We are more than our pain.

The people living under depression can crack the brightest smiles.
We wouldn’t wish these feelings on anyone-
that’s we always want to crack jokes.

Between the locked doors and gray walls,
we shared stories from days long ago,
we got excited on chicken tender day,
we ran around the gym and painted everything we could-

We are trying to heal.

Next time someone assumes
they know you, but get it all wrong, try
not to get mad,
no matter how hard you have to grind your teeth,
because you know the truth.

The truth that
you never really know anyone,
at the end of the day-
if it helps, don’t worry, nobody really knows you.

At some point
I stopped reading.
Not entirely.
But almost.
When I enter the old bookstore,
I am gravitate towards the poetry.
Before, I would head towards
the Philosophy section,
the History section,
the Science section.
(Yes, there is poetry in science too.
Also beauty,
also awe and wonderment.
Don’t you read Quantum Mechanics?)
Today, I no longer read with my head.
Just want to feel with my heart.
Poetry soothes my soul.
It makes a great companion.
I am not after elegant words,
or profound meaning.
Not really interested in the poet’s fame.
I just want to taste and cherish,
the Silence,
so lovingly painted by my poet friends.
I want to read each poem slowly.
Meditate on it.
Savor every line.
I want to stare at the blank space
surrounding the words.
And feel the harmony
between emptiness and form.
I am addicted
even to the illustrations;
they are poetry in themselves.
I want to imbibe the atmosphere,
the emotions, and the meaning of it all.
Until I am drunk.
Until I become poetry.