to nurture and grow,
to thrive and survive,

in this exhausting world
where one is just another cog
in a money making machine.

to seek solstice and refuge,
where i can be still
and be one with the world.

where the air is crisp,
flooding imagery
of lakes, trees and hills.

to start life anew,
leave the worries and past behind
take a step towards the future.

When judging the tree by its fruits
The bamboo proponent imputes
             That this grass’s great power
             Lies not with its flower
But deep in its rhizomes and roots

Looking into people, seeing who they are.
Finding out the person, is not the avatar.

Tell who lives a lie as he's walking down the street.
Spreading words of untrue thoughts, buried in deceit.

The lies are then concealed, deep inside the truth.
For Programing our future and hijacking our youth.

Recognizing patterns, flowing in towards me.
Tells me what is coming to our false reality.

When comparing with the truth, the deceptions that you catch.
You will see that all their numbers never are a match.

Numbers make up all there is, everything we know.
But as it is in all there is the first nine steal the show.

Once we get to nine, we know what happens then.
We tack a zero to a one and proclaim  it's a ten.

These nine are everywhere, creating all you see.
The deepest part of everything throughout eternity.

I have taken my daughter
back to where she now lives
but she still calls this space
home
a word that describes so much
more
than just four walls and a roof
this is love, this is sanctuary, this is
roots
as long as we exist on this earth
this will always be where you
belong

though a storm can reveal a tree’s roots.
their essence remains.
through the soil, through every crevice.
a home is still a home.
no matter how far it moves.
no matter how fast and far time moves.
the eyes learn different than hearts.
the body reacts. soon lost in the gaping hole
backfilling a testament with everything tangible.
hearts like tree roots.
grow and they twist, and they turn.
they will always be there.
my heart seeks to learn from yours.
growing big and thick.
though a storm can reveal a tree’s roots.
very seldom, does it remove every root.
beneath the skin, where my heart and yours exists,
layer after layer of dirt blessed by the gift of life.
no matter how much the storm rages.
a piece of you and I will always exist

L-ow down ***** shame
O-nce twice three times a day
V-irtually!
E-verybody hates me?

i lose my placement on the feeling as soon as it leaves

i tripped over my own words and choked on them
misspoke my truth
left out so many important details

everyone around has it somewhat figured
because they had roots.

i grew up severely unaware; didn't know the names of places, only the abstract feeling.
the feelings i can't quite place now

everyone growing up seemed to be grounded
i played into it; welcomed jokes at my expense
i knew more than i was letting on
but i wanted to blend in.
(it worked)

It happens with all the holes and wounds: they grow their own face, mend their gaps, heal their rifts — those new skills of yours are but entities that emerge: to grant shelter, to stand guard, replace the old, thicken the crust, weather this human storm — through and through.

But will the skin ever return to its soil? It linger on forevermore. How tight its grip? How hardened its sappy brooks? When will it nourish those delicate roots anew?

These thoughts arise as doubt breaks free. It pours and flows as I gaze down and lower still. Shadows seep and leak as the wheel spins and drills the soul evermore hollow. Anonymous is our tree of life, but it keeps faces in store.

For it happens with all the holes and wounds: they bleed, they mend, they heal — and what don't they do as I stand here, as I bend, as I kneel — as I carve these seats in shapes of departure. Those skills thicken under my feet like growling tremors.

My past was but a dream — and I'm ready to slide like a crumbling leaf. My weariness is universal. My knowledge heavy. There cannot be a conclusion. I am growing thin.

Let me feed those roots anew.
Through and through.

that plant in the window
may well resent those roots
firmly potted and positioned
on that westerly sill
held in place as it is
by those wispy tendrils
straining outwards
desperate for growth
ever-reaching for
the drifting light
of that introverted Sun
evasive though it may be
its potential remains
dirt encrusted and anaemic
as the hidden branching is
neither its stem nor leaf
nor its bud or flower
could realise the heights
that it hopes to achieve
without these buried parts
for though this tangle
is filth-covered and
far from what any wish
to be faced with
when in admiration
                   of such flora
without this
the evolving maturation
from ceaseless elongation
and meristematic activity
the terracotta on display
could not be filled with
this greenery so vibrant