It shows up.

It shows up even when you can’t see it.

It shows up through what we do, even when we aren’t aware we’re doing it.

It shows up in our clothes, in our words to other people, in our choices, in our habits.

It shows up in the colors we like and the colors we don’t. It shows up in our brothers and their brothers, too. It shows up in the way we step into the rain without an umbrella and it shows up in the way we jump feet first into the puddle in tall boots.

It shows up with our smirks, our selections of things and how we say hello and the times we choose to say thank you. It shows up even when we don’t. It shows up on the screen and it shows up invisibly. It shows up quietly and it shows up loud. It shows up when you need it to. It shows up.

It shows up.

It shows.

She pours the milk tea

In two olive colored porcelain cups;

I set the chairs

In the verandah of our little home

facing few distant windows

of a cemented white shed.

The orange of the dawn is

Melting into its wide plate of blue

Like the ripples of water

Spreading across the stillness of the sea.

"The tea's getting cold",

My eyes murmur into her ears

And she looks me through her leaned lids,

Smiling through the sound of the sip.

I take two spoonful of sugar,

She takes one

And drinks it hot the way it is.

I drink my tea half cold

So she could sit beside me a little longer

by the time I drink the last sip

My tea won't go as cold as

the stillness of the sea.

A dragonfly can remain in it’s nymph stage for up to four years before fully transforming into the beautiful winged creatures we admire. They flit around in the water like little faeries, growing and becoming day by day. Perhaps some of them watch with longing as their companions take flight while they are stuck wondering when they will soar among the clouds. They may even begin to believe that their time will never come. That they are destined to remain a nymph and nothing more. Some might not even believe in the final stage, thinking swimming in the cool waters is all they were ever meant to do.

We humans are similarly complex beings in that some of us will take the full length of time to grow spiritually while others may require much less. Don’t try to force growth, your wings need to mature in their own time, life is funny like that. Follow your path with confidence that your time to fly among the stars will come. Always remember that the stage of transformation can be very painful. You must give yourself the love and patience necessary to survive it.

Rejoice in your journey.

Each special detail etched onto the wings of your soul belongs to you and you alone...

Our book

hasn’t even

been opened

yet.

It’s waiting for us.

We have to read

many more

before

we can finally

enjoy our story.

We feel

each other’s

energy,

in the longing

for more.

An ache

of the soul

in the dark,

silent nights.

Sometimes

we think

we’ve met.

Maybe

we have.

We must do the work first.

Live.

Learn.

Grow.

Become.

One day

we will

both

be ready

to read

our story,

together.

We are not yet complete...

I sat and repeated the word over and over

And I couldn't picture anything

I couldn't form words

Absolutely nothing came to my mind

But an endless space of clouds, stars, lost souls and broken dreams

So

who

said

black

was

oblivion?

i used to dance to taylor swift

barefoot in the clover patch behind the baseball field

whispering green apple scented secrets

into gabriella’s hair

now i cry to taylor swift

curled up in the bottom of the shower

watching through blurry eyes

as the memories swirl down the drain

They say no other love can come untill you have mastered this one.

I dissagree, I tend to love other people way more then I love me.

I know myself to well, I know all my secrets, I know all my flaws, and I know the truth behind each single action I have ever made.

Other peoples truths seem to be easier to swallow,

Other peoples truths seem to be easier to forgive,

Other peoples truths seem to be eaiser to fall in love with.

So I fall in love with other people,

to persuade them to fall in love with me,

so

I don’t have to.

do you watch and wait like i do?

at the edge,

where the world collides

with the cold sky~

is it never enough?

do you keep pouring

more and more

but come up empty?

it doesn't seem real,

but it hurts too much~

stings and scrapes and burns.

there's the urge to cry,

but no water or salt,

as halls are paced

and glass minds

shatter.

I am too old             to feel             like this            again.

    The age old adages have come back to haunt me.

    Knives are like words from my ex best friend’s throat.

                                         And she lured me in, snakelike

                                         until I couldn’t see

                                         anything.

Not anything

at all

anymore.

Did you see the lights flicker?                Oh, but the stars shine

just for you.

It’s all an illusion,           it’s a game.       They feed me propaganda

and I spit it back for a grade

/in perfect unison/

I’m starting to agree I’m something punk rock

sorta vibe. I’m starting to hurt my ears just so I can’t hear what’s inside.

I’m starting to agree my anger is justified,

my breath of fresh air, electrified; all the wrong reasons, intensified;

glorified;

and they think me petrified           but the level I’m on made the pastors cry.

I can’t see the surface.                                               If I scream will my voice still be amplified?

That’s why:

I spit it into rough syllables, scream it in decibels

            /past a thousand/

write it in legible chalk on the ground and let                             people look and look past it

                                cause it might make someone uncomfortable.

                                     I haven’t been this way in ages

         been angry in enough to spit words and fill pages and

say everything I been holding back for fear of the rage might make someone afraid

                                                                             and not like what I have to say 

but screw it.

I’d rather have no friends and get all my words out then a party of friends

and an ache in my mouth                                         from keeping shut and quitting.

I ask my friends why I’m special to them and they chime back in eulogy,

list my awards in chronology like I am now their trophy wife.

               Rather, the real life 

               Trophy Mistress, Best Friend Resistance Part II (to you)

I’ve lived the way they make me say hello at parties.

It makes me uncomfortable.

Man, I’m singing now too, join me in my debut and we’ll put skulls on the cover and call it

anger. 

“Your writing is beautiful.”

“If it is then I haven’t done my job.”

I don’t recognize the ghostwriter I had last year

who occupied time trying for flowery language people’d call correct and only remember for a day.

I can’t say it that way, I can only make sounds             My voice is garbled and unsure of itself.

(but here’s verse one.)

And now my hair’s all messed up and I’m thinking of shaving it

and my parents say I’m a train wreck just waiting to happen

but at least this image tattoos itself into y’all’s brains and it makes into a double.

(I really need braces--imagine if they were affordable.)

I question everything, the people on the street are in my head again,

the sun is a knife and it cuts through my skin again

and let’s let people see things I’ve tramp stamped to my skeleton,.

I long to make them understand but once you’ve past the age it’s not something you’ll

taste again. I’m glad for their sake, then.

I’d hate to make anyone uncomfortable.

Besides, seventeen tastes too much like bile.