Songs run through my head
playing on shuffle
sweet melodies
to dark songs of sorrow
songs with the power stick
in a overflowing overemotional mind

songs run through my head
singing all day
and all night
happy songs
sad songs
with the power to change me

songs run through my head
unphased, unaffected by everything
else happening in my brain

When the facts are forgotten
the songs remain
when nothing else is there
the songs stay

The songs save me

Little life.
Soft fingers turning pages.
You will never be the same as you were a moment ago.
Constantly moving and constantly learning.
Airplanes,
whispers and
cookie crumbs.
Already your life is moving faster and leaving yesterday to the dogs.
None of us are here forever,
but if only somehow I could freeze these little moments in time
and re-live them forever and ever.

It is important to write really bad pieces of poetry and prose.
Keep them in a journal somewhere.
Don't share them.
Just get them out there and tuck them away.
We must purge the cliche and mundane,
so that we may begin the work of creating art that moves.
We must press beyond the idiocy of our immediate thought and
find the inner wellspring of power.
Just beneath the petty complaints,
and regurgitated phrases,
inches deep beyond our projections and fears.
If we can sit long enough with our demons,
inner child,
and god-like spirits we will find something truly worth saying.
Worth giving.
Worth making.
Our legacy is planted only as deep as our honesty.