Secure in his flightRider on the constant windsHawk flies through his daysLooks then to the eastPrompted by fate’s gentle breezeChanges his intentFate’s gentle breezesMove the mighty heart to changeDestiny remade

Sometimes a name seems our most arbitrary possession,and sometimes it seems like the grain in a rocklike a sculptor's hunk of Italian marble: Whack itand you might get either your first glimpse of a saintor a pile of rubble.

If their tears could be read,as the blind can read brailleWould your eyes then be openedto another & how they feel?Without condemnation or any aversions from withinCould you set aside judgementwhile seeking total absolution?

The longer a life, the challenge is not the distance between destinations, but the difficulty of travelling light. My soul’s a portmanteau packed full, one half filled with what was, the other with what is, what should be.

I felt the threads of connection between us—fragile filaments, so easily snapped. Like the poem at shift into his side, we were craving to fit inside the other, and is melting and reshaping could be deeper, more resilient.

Like one who, on a lonely road, Doth walk in fear and dread, And, having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. - Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner.

I will not play at tug o' war.I'd rather play at hug o' war,Where everyone hugsInstead of tugs,Where everyone gigglesAnd rolls on the rug,Where everyone kisses,And everyone grins,And everyone cuddles,And everyone wins.

The core of your true self is never lost. Let go of all the pretending and the becoming you've done just to belong.Curl up with your rawness and come home. You don't have to find yourself; you just have to let yourself in.

In school, I hated poetry - those skinny,Malnourished poems that professors love;The bad grammar and dirty words that catchIn the mouth like fishhooks, tear holes in speech.Pablo, your words are rain I run through,Grass I sleep in.

Bombs on my backpack lunchbox full of fivestar crackers pockets loaded with rockets im gonna spit fireworks explosive rhymes connected like judas belt here comes my ride a mother rocket fly so high reach and bursts into the night sky

And now dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed: Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye, And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

I cast myself at him, like a fool, but he didn't see me. And then one day he noticed I was beautiful and he wanted me. He broke me off and took me with him, in his hands, and I didn't care that I was dying until I actually was.

Dreams like a podcast,Downloading truth in my ears.They tell me cool stuff.""Apollo?" I guess, because I figured nobody else could make a haiku that bad.He put his finger to his lips. "I'm incognito. Call me Fred.""A god named Fred?

She asks why I like her.Might as well askWhy I breathe.Maybe tomorrow I won'tBreathe or like herAnymore.Maybe tomorrow the tidesWill stop.Maybe tomorrow will bringNo more rainbows.Maybe tomorrowShe will stopAsking useless questions.

Am learning every day that there are more threads to me That I have been rising and changing, rediscovering who I ambecoming who I want to be putting the broken pieces back together and becoming an arrowcontinuing to rise into the light.