Nights (Day 3)

She is summer in winter 
and she is Christmas in June 

she is pancakes on Sunday 
and the stars and moon 

she is compassion in danger 
and resilience in fear 

she is warm milk and honey 
she is always there. 

I can't tell you why 
I can't even fathom 

how God saved one angel 
for us to cherish 

but I can say she is love. 
The best of it, the whole of it 
she is, she is.

Nights (Day 2)

"Why do you love him?"

The "L" curved around the edges of their mouths and threw daggers at her lax heart.

She felt the lines of her palm tear up in anxiousness.

Her mouth dried and eyes dimmed.
Maybe I say I don't. Maybe I say I don't.
She contemplated these lines though her mouth paralyzed at the thought of hiding her heart.

In that moment, she thought of saying-
I love him because he is weak.
I love him because he is strong.
I love him because he is ignorant.
I love him because he seeks to know more.
I love him in soliloquy.
I love him in silence.
I love him while he's broken.
I love him when he's solid.

Maybe it was the way his eyes lit up knowing you were his sun.
Or maybe it was his darkened smile that sought warmth from your heart.

But you kick yourself in the ass when aiming for your heart, because you love him.

"Why do you love him?"

You wished to say "I don't love him, I don't love him"

But in your heart, the way it beats, you saw that you were meant to be.

"Why do you love him?"

"I'm in love with him, wholeheartedly"

Nights (Day 1)

Embody this.
What you feel, how you feel.
Feel organically and wholeheartedly.
As your body lay still in the night, understand.
Understand that your heart may feel a million miles away.
Your tears may dry on their own.
Your pain may go unnoticed.
Feel-and feel for on these nights, its the only thing that makes you feel human.

The words the whole time (writers personal view)

The way the words land so seamlessly on a page. The way they blend together-welcoming and questioning. I love the way I write and for so long I thought it was about the writer. However, the more I write the more I see its not about me. It's not about a single aspect of me. These words are powerful and bold. Independent and courageous. Loved and loving. More than often I find myself as the alien. A complete stranger to the words that fill these pages. If I were to picture the author behind the stories, songs, poems, I would see someone with a laughter that could fill the room- someone who could make people smile on the rainiest of day and loneliest of nights. Most profound is what I don't see. I don't see me. Realistically I know beyond these words I am invisible. To the strangers who see these you can take these words and carry them with you-which is most rewarding. I write in this anonymity because I never want to interrupt the nature of the things I love. The thing I love the most is seeing the faces of the ones I love happy and loving and for the first time in a long time everyone of them has that-completely. So when I write these words inspired by the people places, and things I encounter, I leave it in anonymity  because I owe that to you. Lately I've been alone writing those lines and stanzas and it feels like it wouldn't be so bad to just disappear. It was never about the writer,it was never about me, it was the words the whole time. 

UFB

Your eyes sharpen at the glance of that cocoa sheet prickled with hairs standing no taller than one another.

A look of disgust and discomfort scan the depths of a 60 year old soul, bouncing from the stem to the petals, to the heart.

The roots of this plant lay on a bed of chocolate scalp. Twisted, locked, matted, burnt.

Your eyes scroll to the mixed pout of brown and pink.

Soft to the touch of moisture, rough to the whip of wind.

Those eyes then circle to almond eyes as dark as the wood of an oak tree.

These weak eyes look down in blankets of insecurity. Blind.

Blind to their own beauty. Blind to their potential.

But not blind to the fact that they will never be seen as beautiful by a naked eye scanning the very crease of their imperfections.

So they sit. They sit in beds of oily skin, tired from the nights of staying up just to seem; smarter, friendlier, or normal.

Your eyes scroll to the un-plucked sleeves of hair planted upon a dotted forehead.

Further your eyes bounce off of rounded curves.

Filled with packets of pink gum, contrasting with the coating of black flesh.

If your eyes could make it to the stalk of the stem, you see a broad figure.

Slumped shoulders from fetal positioned work days.

Thickened thighs coping with discomfort through food.

Short torso, suffocated by overlapping breast; tender and sensitive.

Dragging arms. Fractured hands.

Widened feet. Blubber knees.

And when you can't bring yourself to look anymore, you see rows of candy stained teeth.

The twisting of oversized lips.

The sniffle of a button nose.

You try hard not to wonder, but you can't help it.

The only comfort comes in knowing this particular brown palette

is lighter than that of the frightening street crawlers or destitute track riders.

Her (Pronouns)

Her
Her eyes are like no other.
They are not simply windows to her soul,
They are doors to her heart.
These doors mimic shades of: trees, grass, holly,ivy,emerald
shining like that of no other.
If she smiles, when she smiles, it as if time is caught in a tango,
debating whether to speed up in order to see what's to come or slow down
just so the moment never ends.
Her way is different from any other.
It's what keeps this limp heart beating.
It's what keeps this wheel turning.
What keeps this dreamer dreaming.
Her is more than she see's.
Beauty beyond the naked eye, even if stripped of ego, ignorance, judgment, and fear.


Loving her is not the hard part.
Debating when to kiss her ruby lips.
Wondering when to grab her hand when her palms are too shy.
Knowing when to hold her because of the monsters on the screen and the ones in her dreams.
Seeing when her words slip from her tongue and she just needs you to sit in silence, listening to her heart beat at a rate almost as fast as your own.
Having her face blanket your chest as her earrings leave imprints that you wish would stain your skin for the rest of the night.
Touching that imprint just so you can remember the feel of her breath as she dozes off or the wrinkle of her noise when she's fighting to stay awake longer than you.


Loving her is the easy part.
Realizing she's the only BS you ever want to “put up” with.
Hearing the way her laugh creates music better than that of the musician's hand.
Staring at her while she sits doing the everyday things that become extraordinary simply because she's effortlessly doing them.
Falling in love with the inanimate things around her like the shirt she finds more comfy than your arms or the pants that hug her as she sits in a fetal position on the couch.
Kissing her so that her lips mold into yours.
Going back for another kiss because the first was such a tease.
Waiting for her to doze off after making love just so you can think of the ways her soul feels like home.
Feeling the warmth she brings to the souls around her, radiating like the sun and shining like the stars.
Loving her is the easy part.


The hard part is
steadying her hand so she doesn't feel the urge to pierce her shield
watching her critique the very lines of her body that you find yourself tracing over in awe
seeing her cry in indecisiveness
watching her dance with shades of black tar detachment
seeing her cut the strings of caring, emotion
watching as she runs the tightrope just to avoid the crash of mind,heart,body, and soul
knowing that she is no longer so sure of forever
knowing she bites her tongue on bad days
not knowing when your words matter
not knowing when she wants to go in for the kiss this time
not knowing when she wants to say I love you if she wants to say I love you if she needs to say I love you
not knowing when she sees the cuter stranger who flashes smiles of adventure, rebellion, easiness, charm, and freshness.


The easy part is
steadying her hand so she doesn't feel the urge to pierce her shield
watching her critique the very lines of her body that you find yourself tracing over in awe
seeing her cry in indecisiveness
watching her dance with shades of black tar detachment
seeing her cut the strings of caring, emotion
watching as she runs the tightrope just to avoid the crash of mind,heart,body, and soul
knowing that she is no longer so sure of forever
knowing she bites her tongue on bad days
not knowing when your words matter
not knowing when she wants to go in for the kiss this time
not knowing when she wants to say I love you if she wants to say I love you if she needs to say I love you
not knowing when she sees the cuter stranger who flashes smiles of adventure, rebellion, easiness, charm, and freshness.


And still loving all of her shades of green and black.
Still holding her as that waves makes an unexpected rise and nearly drowns you.
Still watching for the unpredictably predictable moments that inspire your inner prose and artistry.
Still doing the happy dance when you get to cook her a new dish as she sits in that very same indecisiveness.
Choosing her BS even while she suspends over a rain cloud of black tar detachment
grabbing an umbrella and dance through this rain because you've seen that very sun she shines.


I am telling you Loving her is the easy part because she could turn a deaf man into a musician and a blind man into a believer
Loving her is the easy part because even in her dark shades she paints a rainbow around my heart.
And my God, by God, I love her.

Bound By Buddha

A trip downtown with friends and an eye grabbing display, “all items 90% off,” presented a cheap buy for my frugal pack. Buddhist merchandise from chains to frames, then the wooden bracelet drew me in. Eighteen spherical balls with an oak wood wash banded by a brown elastic tie with a butterfly knot at the end. Each bead is engraved with a Buddhist symbol thought to bring good luck. One bead features a figure sitting Native American style in front of a semi-circle. Another is etched with a Chinese symbol submerged in a circle. When each bead is rolled around, the oak wash begins to fade to a tinted olive color. While this color is faint around the center of each bead, it become prominent at the top creating a contrast of deep brown and green. When in the light, this contrast becomes more visible as some beads have tinted faster than others. A beautiful contrast between, light and dark;day and night. The band binding these wooden spheres together seems to be extremely durable despite every tug and pull it faces. The beads themselves are equally as durable, with a smoother surface, until your fingers come across one of the sketched in little men for good luck.

This good luck charm serves purpose and meaning as it hugs tightly on my wrist. As the beads sit upon my skin there is a smooth and subtle roll. Neither my friends or I were Buddhist, yet we intrusted in a bracelet to bring us closer as we grew older. Subconsciously we knew that this bracelet would be the one common ground we held as we began to change like seasons. Two years later and the bracelet is in solid condition. It's almost as if the wood has gotten better with age while the original butterfly knot has held its own as well. Realistically, the polished staining on the beads is most likely just wearing off however my imagination is more inclined to appreciate the beauty. Nostalgic and slightly painful, this lucky charm is the only thing that has kept me close to the ones that have drifted away.