it’s important to note that it’s never been black or white
through all of my years in the forest, searching for wrong or right
fight or flight
stability or plight
will not or might
it’s never been specific
the simple truth is
a perfect path does not exist
only a grey area, a gris
an admirable fluidity
a psychedelic opportunity scheme
life is but a dream
and all cliches are as they seem
I have waived a handful of contenders to sail, simply because their demeanor felt eerily similar.
I swear it effortlessly lingers long after I purged of the shambles.
Why am I apprehensive to what mimics what I was once blazing for—for what I sifted endless thorns?
Will I always cower amidst what may scorch every palliative orchid?
I miss you these days and wonder if you feel the same.
I recount your childish ways. We are a distant memory, yet to fade.
A spring of warming arrays! A particular emotion pairs with your name.
Your inquisitive gaze observes untold explanations upon my face.
I trace the coffee stains to ignore your passive displays.
Loose ends remain and it is an inviolable shame.
Now, with a settling blaze, I am here to claim:
There is no one to blame. It is just painfully, too late.
There was a mutual role to play. To fate, we must obey.
You are the reason I stayed. But it is my bed, so I lay.
I miss you these days. After the January haze,
I have braved some change. Likewise, I pray.
Do the Leaves Know They’re Admired?
Do the leaves know they’re admired anywhere they float?
Passionately adored by innocents in the fleeting Autumn glow.
Observed by strangers from separate altitudes, crunching underneath wandering feet.
And when they dance in spirals, “I’ll miss you,” speaks the trees.
And are you aware how loved you are?
Even when you can only muster a presence.
They see you shining in any season, so darling, please just let them.
Unlike most crafts, we are incapable of forcing creation.
It originates with an experience—striking, moving, rare.
Emotion rushes in, or trudges along, depending on the psyche.
A chemical reaction courses through our veins, boiling in our blood. It meticulously selects a section of our bodies, in which to remain for lifetimes to come.
On the brink of implosion, our hands gravitate towards a utensil. Without strenuous consideration, words are birthed onto the page. Some, effortlessly. Others carve their nails into the surface.
After the hurricane, when all settles into fresh and familiar places, rationalization slowly ensues its way into awareness.
Understanding seldom approaches at an anticipated moment. All the same, it arrives exactly when we need it to.
It is nearly impossible to sway my personal assessment,
for the inner battle prevails.
I am my own worst enemy,
no matter what this existence entails.
My default doodles are whimsical,
my compassion is endearing.
They say I spark up the room,
all negativity clearing.
I seldom recognize
what they are relaying.
How ironically oblivious!
Do you get what I am saying?
I feel when I am misinterpreted, but it’s okay because my empathy does not discriminate.
And when a thoughtful angel appears, I won’t miss him. So in solitude, I will wait.
If October brings change, November is for adaptation.
As December entails jubilance, January encourages creation.
Although present in all seasons, each are highlighted in due time.
So, if I may shed light on eleven, I wish to convey why.
Everything in this life is reaction, congruent to The Butterfly Effect.
A series of alterations occurs from conception to death.
What one is modifying to may be understood shortly thereafter.
Why we alter in the first place is a question I am always after.
I suppose it is a default setting, cooperative to natural selection.
I am confident the distance one achieves relies on adaptation.
The Greatest Distractions
No matter where you run to, everything is a reflection.
Even the wildest distractions cannot kill off your demons.
For the Woman Who Cannot Wander
As I curiously perch with my feet in the water, my heart breaks for the woman who cannot wander.
I ache for Katina, captive to Sea World, for the child bride with a future forced before her. My thoughts are with the women who cannot voyage, for the willing spirit with a gun upon her courage. For the women whose potential is inhibited by circumstance, and to all who relate to this by happenstance.
The feminine soul was divinely crafted to explore, to retreat, analyze, and search for more. ‘Twas designed to discover identity before she might want to be a wife, and nurture herself prior to another’s life.
I blow a kiss to every star in homage of the choice—the prerogative to use my individual and worthy voice. How I wish I could save them with my bare hands. It is a world of inequality, belonging to the man.
I witnessed all four seasons in a month,
each accompanied by their own burdens and breakthroughs:
Summer in the way I made you laugh, Autumn in your ever-altering mind, Winter in your slammed doors, Spring in our reignitions.
It is wonderfully okay to surrender to the fact that you are not,
by the same token to celebrate that you are after a duration in the dark.
The End of the Tunnel
After years of probing the impetus for human condition, I may finally be satisfied.
The rarity and privilege of existence entails creation.
The mission is manifestation: to be co-creators, co-conspirators in multitudes of connection.
Macrocosm is equivalent to microcosm. The reason orchestrates union among all.
Tell me, do you ever wonder if we missed out on each other?
If you foresaw the outcome, what differently would you have done?
Never Too Far
No matter where you are, who you are with, what you are doing,
or lack thereof,
hold on for a little longer.
You are never too far from the rise or setting of the sun.
You Can’t Stop The Current
My best moments lack consideration—no ‘but’s’ or ‘wait’s’, no hesitation.
I go head first with my eyes wide open, so as not to miss the view
For we, alike to water, are to be understood and not controlled.