They'll tell you how beautiful are your wings,

While they bind your pinions and strip your feathers.

"So graceful and so precious!  Such lofty, ethereal things,"

The words like rusty chains, cracked leather-sentiment tethers.

They'll tell you, "Rise above the sorrow, fly from the pain,"

After they teach you to clip your own wings so you won't fall,

And when the confusion sets in they'll be the first to tell you you're sane.

"People can't fly," they'll say, and point to the wings nailed to their wall.

Seasons of the heart.
are like seasons of the weather.
Always changing.
Always coming back.
No matter what!!

Shell ✨🐚

In Soviet Russia,

Consequence face YOU.

So my therapist asked me, "Would you want her to read your poems?"

I feel like there's a poem in that somehow,

but I'm too heartbroken over it to write it,

because the truth is I don't know the answer...

I mean she doesn't know me and I fear she never really did

but I also would not want her to be hurt by my words,

yet still, if she doesn't understand then she is already being hurt by the unknown, the lack of understanding, by the misunderstanding itself:

it's a paradox.

Ah shiny approval,

Warm and soothing on the skin,

Absorbed like a lizard,

When one is hypervigilant.

Cruisin the interwebs the other day,

And I saw someone call a He a She and call them both gay.

Maybe I picked the wrong week to quit trollin, but I was dyin to say:

Are you too limited on intellect to pronounce Them or They,

Or is your empathetic deficit a debt other People should pay?

But the fact is, We are all actors on the same stage in this play,

And sometimes We all need someone to show Us the way.