I go back and read my words a lot

and think about the reflection they might make

it's hard to say just what I think of myself

but I know that I am more than heartache

I write about confusion

about decision making

about the pain that comes when doors are closed for you

I write about my life

and about others that I know

and still others that do not exist,

but that you might relate to

I am not miserable

I am grateful for my life

I believe that God has saved me from the evil of mankind

I am by no means perfect

and I still have (real) bad days

but despite the pain in my words

my life is pretty great.

I am blessed with a family who knows me and is true

in their affection and so I honor them

the best I can

I am blessed with a job that I find fulfilling

despite being incredibly frustrating

I am blessed with the ability to think abstractly and write.

I am blessed with youth and strength

even though I feel myself aging

I am blessed with pain and heartache

that I might recognize when I'm happy

I want to be healthy

kind, understanding

funny, smart, wealthy and wise

I want to raise a family

and work on my whole being

to develop the part of the world that I walk on

and treat it as though it were mine.

Sometimes I feel like I’m speaking a different language. Something rhythmically obscure off a planet, around the corner from the milky way.

To be misunderstood, misinterpreted

and misplaced

can feel so lonely.

Still I move forward with over explanations, and overextending my hand to whoever wants to grasp it.

My soul moves to a ballad of linear percussionists, steady on beat.

My voice is more of a cliche metaphor in the middle of a beautiful book that throws you back to reality. Beating that dead horse repeatedly until It breaks.

Names of states.an countries are pronounced differently in different languages. Two acquaintances of mine went a few years ago to Walmart, and when buying whatever, were discussing their next assignment, which was in Niger, near Nigeria.

The problem was, that in their language, the Slovenian, Niger sounds 100% like the most "ufff not to touch word", even if rapper use it instead of commas. Nigeria similar. So they paid, went out, and an impromptu BLM crowd waited, prepared to crucify them as racists; they were listening to them on the sly. Police preventively arrested them as possible white supremacist.

It took an hour, Google searches in some program that reproduced Slovenian representation, pronunciation and even a call to Cleveland university professor of Slovenian, to get them out of the mess. They were sure to be beaten do death or sued anyway and after that rushed to Niger immediately.

Where nobody cared how they said Niger, as long as they have done their job....

The golden yellows of sunflowers, the crisp reds of peonies, none can be ignored by this little one. Coasting from one to the other as if on a breeze blowing just for it.

Bathing in orange powder at every stop. Occasionally a quick snooze under a stamen, but only for a moment. Then up and out! On to the whites of daisies and the oranges of dahlias. Disappearing into a distant meadow.

There's something about it. That sound, that medley of word and tune. All of a sudden, my fingers tap, my blood rushes and my body begs to be allowed to dance. Within me, some skilled weaver of movement gives spirited twists and turns and sways in utter awe as they are taken over. I sit as still as I can if I am surrounded but when alone, safe, you will never see a freer being. It holds me tight, embraces me with its familiarity, with its passion, with its beauty and lets me know once again that it will be okay. There's nothing more I've wanted, and forever will I be grateful to the gods who allow such divinity to be expressed by the mortals too. Even they, in their ivory towers, can't help but nod along in resignation. Too much power is given to the creators of this art, a blessed gift to help so many breathe anew.

Legs curled under me

in my favorite chair

wrapped in a blanket

safe from the cold air

cup of hot chocolate

or perhaps spiced tea

tabled close at hand

helping me to be

relaxed and at ease

lost in time and place

I forget myself

all problems erased.

The world warms me as it welcomes me this morning, even as the frost forms from my exhaled breath as I glide to my familiar seat on the outside patio.

The radiance in my smile electrifies the frigid air that envelopes me; the hum of civilization buzzes fresh and distinct, engines purring, songbirds squawking, the frazzled housewife in her familiar herding of offspring even finds a fondness in my heart.

Tonight we will meet again, and you will brave me into another tomorrow then, and there is nothing I can't win, and I promise you this, I won't diss this bliss.

It is calming, looking at the bamboo swaying along with the wind, sound of nothing but the nature speaking to the soul, overshadowing the tension gnawing at the back of head. Here, under the gray sky, despite of the storm brewing ahead, there is a sense of ease and completeness in being with no one but myself. Let the hidden world be my company.

Your flawed beauty blossomed from my periphery, and all I could articulate is- "Hold my hand." Our fingers now linking like bridges to my next decade, cheek-rivers flowing between two worlds apart, lips like roses stuck sloppily upon each other. I was then mindless and breathless, this Pneumatic Engineer investigating my lips with a tool called 'Tongue', to practice his profession on these air compressor machines that used to be my Lungs. And he'll listen to that wet friction as I form a smile.