Each morning I rise,
I awaken to a present,
neatly wrapped in sunlight,
and gently laid upon my lap,
awaiting its grand opening.

A parcel of intangibility,
a package of inherent promise,
bound by ribbons of time,
and bestowed to me
upon each new dawn unfolding.

It is the gift I loathe,
its unwrapping I deeply scorn,
never failing to haunt me,
as each morning I’m presented
with the gift I cannot reject.

Oh how gruesome is it
That we might stick needles in our body
And cut open our flesh
Stuff ourselves like teddy bears
And douse ourselves in chemicals
Throw our money to the wolves
Who created these grotesque rules
All in the name of consummating their fabricated illusion.

reaching out
palm to a holographic hope
dissipating like fog
as my fingers linger
in the air it once permeated.

maybe fantasy only serves its purpose
by not being touched.

it is called a breaking point because
every cell, every fiber of one’s being
has been gripping so tightly onto
the thread of what it knows to be true.
and when that thread snaps,
the entirety of the person becomes unraveled
in an instant.
a thread that sewed one together over many years:
every moment of experience, a stitch
every belief about oneself, a knot.
its breaking point tears apart the very fabric of one’s identity.
and what, at first, feels unfamiliar & uncomfortable,
is only a return to the very beginning of oneself;
the unentangled person.

i like to believe each soul is its own special color
toned by our own unique palette of experiences
and tinted through the unique medley of our hearts.
some colors very similar, most very different, and no two exactly the same.
every color existing as innate necessity within the rainbow of humanity.

and maybe love is much simpler than we make it out to be.
maybe it’s not found in the doing, in the pursuing, in the trying.
instead,
maybe love is found in the resting place that is presence.
maybe love is found in the silence that is a listening ear.
maybe love is found in the stillness that is humble acceptance.
maybe love is just..
as you are.

Like the last spark from dying embers
Leaving her bed of ashes
Floating up into the dark sky
A droplet of fire
Carried by the currents of wind
Into her next blazing beginning

Collector of moments
tethered by time,
picking the fruits of life
for as long as I’m here.

Discovering only
after biting into:
whether sweetness or bitterness
lies on the tongue?

i write to describe
the tales of my existence

but not even
an entire language
can put into one’s heart
the essence of experience

for my words
will form their meaning
within the mind of the other
my words are clay between
the readers hands
my writing is the blank page

An empty cardboard box
In the two hands of everyone I meet.
A box I never asked for
But a box that’s just for me.

Each one a different color,
A different size, a different shape.
As they form their mental labels
The box is sealed with tape.

I found God in the clouds
I found God in the trees
I found God in the birds
I found God in the bees

I found God in your soul
I found God in my art
I found God in your eyes
I found God in my heart.

Taken by reverence
Standing in the presence
Of great and ancient beings.

Dressed in vines
Have lived many lives
Firmly rooted in Earth's will.

Upwards they grow
May it be slow
Follow the blueprint beneath.

Bound by the flow
Of nature's ego
Traversing the chasm of time.