objectivity
its so clear
all lined up and logical
do this then that then that over there
of course, of course
just do it
simple as that

theoretically
its so easy
all planned out to the t
do this then that then that over here
of course, of course
just do it
of course, of course
have you done it?
of course not

I don't know where to come
I keep telling you

Sure you do, you always do

Then why do I still question it

You do everytime,
let go and unwind
peace, harmony, relaxed mind, body, spirit, and soul
Let go
Let go
Let go

i've learned over time
that when tragedy strikes, it's
so much easier to bury your face in a pillow
and give in to the fog...
and wait.
wait for someone else to come along and make it crystal clear again.
wait for someone else to make sense of all the grey
you see no matter how times you rub your eyes.
but darling, i ask you,
if everyone gives into the fog
who will be left to fight it off?
although it's easier to pray for a knight, a miracle, something,
sometimes you have to save yourself.

Glasses;
so big!
With curves and crevices,
and area so majestic
like a continent never explored.

Glasses;
so revolutionary!
With voice and passion,
and struggles so deep
like a country in depression.

Glasses;
so new!
With a new page arriving,
and vision to again be clear
like a scope through the old horror.

It is an indescribable setting of a life.
To feel the cool, beginning of each day
rise over your blankets,
stirring the hushed quiet in your bedroom
as your eyelids flutter open
to let clear puddles of shimmering brown,
bathe in the golden tendrils of light
that softly soak into your sleepy, warm skin.
The air is calm, sprinkled with peach colored contentment
and the creamy jade of a flowing solitude,
where, looking clearly, one could decipher
the hidden soft meanings
behind every single swirling, silver moment
that are lost to the confines of a time glass setting and resetting.
To each day, the calendar beckons for the
soft marking of your black felt pen
when you carefully print your signatures of life
in neat, little, swirls that become decorations and memories
of a single person's existence,
a drawn tale and illustration of the warmth flowing
in your body like a river,
and of the steady beat of your loving, irreplaceable heart.
Your footsteps resound through these roots
of the earth, where you tread upon
cracked concrete roads, newly paved pathways,
woven blankets of green grass,
and the worn, familiar brown forest path
that guides you to your little, hidden creek.
Your hands trace the spines of worn paperbacks,
and coax the stiffness out of newly presented books
as you grace them with your open mind,
maybe to one day create your own to generously share
with the world,
one or two of your free, limitless thoughts,
and a piece of yourself.