When your story flows like a river,
words come easy, plot turns deliver –
you're a wizard, a witch of the light!
You're gifted with magic – the power to write!

When I was little
I was scared
Scared of the monsters living under my bed
I used to hide, under my blanket
Under my blanket, I was safe
The monsters couldn’t reach me under my blanket

My parents used to say
The monsters would go away
I would grow up and that then they would leave

But I grew up
And the monsters didn’t leave
Turns out my monsters, grew with me
Now instead of under my bed
The monsters live inside my head

So I hide, under my blanket
Where I think I am safe
Wondering if after all this time
My blanket can still keep the monsters at bay

going home isn’t always
returning to a place.
sometimes
it is returning to yourself.

Capped in a can,
trapped by the man
and sold down the river,
I should have known better.

Getting it right
reading into the night takes much longer, but I'm making the coffee a bit stronger to help keep things moving.

And the days keep on shifting
I'm drinking a fifth in a quarter
of the time.

grass, gas, or *** nobody rides for free
cops and robbers and the indian hides for me
my *** ate grass got gas and then shies on me
my horse got sores got shot, and dies on me

all us poor kids didn't mind to be a tribe
eenie meanie mighty moe never helped us hide
tony two tooth's daddy likes to run around
his mom is gonna play too and "hunt him down"

one two buckle in my shoe, toys in the attic
hopscotch buckshot semi-automatic
piggy goes to market this piggy stays home
then, this old man comes rollin home all alone

sorry coach but this year i can't go out
daddy blew out his knee and my shoe had a blow out
richie rich called his stepbrother a snitch
sweet summer hits with a hickory switch

jump back charlie jack you know how we feel
bacon comes from a hog boy not from a meal
hoppa fence it's 50 cents for stolen fruit
poppa top drop no deposit no returns pollute

I wonder if I really am kind hearted.
Most people think it’s true,
But maybe I’m just afraid of being mean-
Maybe I’m afraid of being you.

He asked her what it's like living with anxiety.

She smiled sadly, "It's a never-ending pulse-race. Like knowing you don't want to jump off a cliff but not being able to talk yourself down from it.

Your fears take on a nebulous, unidentifiable form that tightens around your throat and incapacitates you.

There is no calm. No peace. Only the edge of a very strained thread."

They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love."
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."

Her eyes were fiery
While her lips peeled away
Her sun was setting
But her colors never fade
When she bites she is bitter
But when she smiles she is sweet
Like a nectarine emblem
She’s the fruit of life’s tree.