A collective of thoughts, poetry, writing works, blurbs, and other randomosity

My body is not your home,

you can’t just leave all your…things here,

and come and go as you please;

They leave with you if you’re leaving –

they only stay

if I choose to agree.

My mind is not your dumpster –

You can’t fill it with all your junk

and expect me to save us both

from the toxic spillage of your detritus.

Besides, there’s no room in here for nonsense;

It’s no place for trash.

My heart is no trinket of yours

You won’t mistreat it like some plaything;

Amusing yourself only until the “newness” wears off,

only to toss it onto the haphazard pile

of other discarded toys

thrown recklessly aside once

you’re bored with them

or tire of playing foolish games.

My soul is not your lighthouse;

It can’t shelter you from the storms

you refuse to face,

there’s no refuge here for your darkness.

My spirit is not your luminary –

I’m not responsible for banishing your


The currents you row so avidly against may

float your boat –

But they won’t capsize mine.


Just like that, it happened

so swiftly I didn’t even realize

until after the frenzy faded…

My fingers stopped moving,

and thoughts failed to make coherent


An eyeblink, fallen lash, the speed of gravity –

An unexpected winter’s cold arrival;

everything froze, maybe surprised as I was,

and then there was…nothing.

A sudden, stark white world;

A shocking lapse, like reaching a lone blank page

in a full journal

or like the jarring loss of signal, sound, color

with only staticky snow for company.

I sit here,

stuck in the grasp of

what was just there;

Struggling to regain inspiration

But it’s gone, and

I can’t fathom how I so quickly

lost my creative flux…

Watching it slip gleefully through my fingers

only to disintegrate into useless ash as I tried to catch it,

unsure whether it’ll ever recover

its former glory.

Writing is always such a right thing

Yet, it’s flighty like a potential new lover;

Always courted, but never kissed –

That is, until imagination ghosts

And the writer finds themselves



It’s cool how

when we find lulls in our conversations,

neither of us feel the need to try to fill the spaces;

To rush to be the first to say…something…

We never have those awkward moments

where hasty words crash into each other.

We don’t stumble over silence,

instead simply sinking comfortably into it…

It’s awesome that our interactions

are just so…easy

even though they’re so rare.

And they end so organically,

our chats –

both of us seeming to sense the exact moment

when it’s time for us to drift apart

on our parallel tides

each of us returning back to our own path;

Knowing eventually, maybe even soon

they’ll cross again anyway.

But sometimes,

I’m a little disappointed

when that has to happen.



Each drop of water is precious,

Each has been here before.

Every drop of water is timeless,

they are souls that return again and again

not to the worlds they know,

but to the worlds they are, that are within them.

Always here, whether as rain, dew, lake, ocean, sea –

Whether they fall from the heavens

or spring up from the Earth; gather as bodies,

or in pools…

They know not what they are,

only that they are –

And all are just one form of the same being.

As are we –

We are each every one of these drops of water,

as infinite, as vast as the Universe.

Contained in a single form, and yet…

without form at all.

We are always here, we always return.

We are always transforming, evolving, changing all we touch

changed by all that touches us.

Every phase, every cycle water flows through

are also ours too.

All part of the entire Universe

as much as it is not just part of us; it is us.

We hold the memories of water,

because we are the memories, just as it is the memories

of us.

We are not all different, not so much as we like to believe;

We simply are.

We are one and we are the same –

I am you, are he, is she, is they, are them, are we,

part of the same whole, created from the same love;

Freedom is our destiny, even as destiny lives in our freedom.

Still, despite our [separate] perceived bodies,

interconnectedness is our truth, as our existence brings life

to the world it finds itself in, and the spaces it occupies –

Because we don’t live in the world;

The world lives

in us.



I think I’m ready now
to face down my shadows;
The ones that burrow deep
and that I attempt to run and hide from
even in my sleep.

I’m not afraid of what they’ll reveal,
not even fearful of what they’ll make me feel.
I don’t  worry about how they’ve marred my soul –
I determined long ago
I’ve never really been completely whole.

That can change,
admitting this even now feels incredibly strange.

I moreso fear they’ll tell me
what I’m sure I mostly always knew,
that I self-sabotage; spiritually self-harm,
to avoid success and its extolling due;
That I also abhor failure, too…
Though I learn(ed) from my many mistakes,
I most often fear never quite having “what it takes.”

They’re gonna expose my flaws and faults
in their rawest form,
they’ll shatter my guards
and I have to look into my own eyes
the(se) tempests of my soulstorms –
admit to all the lies
I told me –

Admit that even though I so clearly see
my own pain and sorrow,
my tidsoptimistic nature
said I could deal with it all tomorrow.
Though that “tomorrow” never came,
I’ve been delaying my own destiny
to save face; to hide shame; to not fight; to own blame.

My shadows are all the pieces of me that  never got the chance
to shine,
that were gradually dulled and covered over with the scabs
of time.
Lackluster shells of former selves
discarded and left to rot
on dusty, forgotten shelves.

I know they question me, my ego –
ask why it was so easy for us to so quickly
let them go
so far away, and so further deep –
to fester and grow;

My only answers as of now
are tears, and…
Well, I honestly don’t know.

But fear can no longer reside here
and must be released,
to once and for all answer to me
the key to unlocking my own peace –
The ultimate goal I wish to exceed.

Yeah, I’m ready now…

Maybe, all this time,
I just never knew or acknowledged how
strong I’ve always been;

And just maybe,
multihandedly denying my own strength
has been my greatest sin.



I think I like most of the things about myself

that I say out loud I don’t –

I self-deprecate to deflect the attention

that part of me actually secretly desires but that I also

hope happens organically;

I haven’t figured out how to do that

so instead I just push it all away.

And I wish I could just…tell people this,

but so discouraged are we

from saying what we truly feel,

disconnected from ourselves

lost in the “perfection” we portray.

I think that not many hold space for vulnerability

because we also have trouble being vulnerable

with ourselves.


Purging myself of all my emotions

seeing my thoughts splayed against

a page

in black and white

reminds me of all the gray areas

my grey matter thinks into

and that life itself isn’t black and white.

Facts and logic and also matters of heart

do intersect and their encounters

birth intuition.

Maybe I do spend too much time

in my own head

but ideas aren’t passive

and are most often conceived from the colors found

in the blazes

of innovation’s dying phoenix.

Life’s gray areas are simply

the  colors we’re blind to

until we open our seeing eyes.



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