how sorry you are

the rain fell ona slant and i imagined they were all my tears i could not bear to cry. i raised my face to the wind and felt the sheets strike my skin. i stayed outside all morning long with you, reading the paper. we drank coffee without any intention other than to be helpful. lord knows we had once been thoughtless and unkind. you make mistakes. you demand more of people, places and things than you ask of yourselves. now i wanna grab hold and empty life of all its discontents. someone expects an apology outta you, and hunts you down. they may never know how sorry you are. the remainder of life, pushing and pulling those notifications, needled with predicate .coms and .orgs. comradery relocated to social media. if we subscribed it would be too soon... gimme the shelter of the rising sun, full moon. all these things we hope to have eternal, here and gone, then come again... to the faithful, pulled and pushed in the tug-of-war of a life. how sorry you are proclaimed deep space, to the star.

keepin' it 100

I gave up once, too. I gave up on myself a hundred times. It was really awful. Soulless. Blank. The only way out for me was to believe in myself and have a cause. I wasn't given a purpose, I found a purpose. Something so much greater than myself. The forces, if you align with them, can give you courage to live authentic, I mean, to be yourself no matter where you are or who is trying to boss you around, no matter what your circumstance, you shine forth and brightly. And find that you are one of a kind, you are needed. And wherever your passion lies, you go for it, purposefully, with a giving spirit. In 2016, do not hold back for anyone or anything. We need you.

Journal # 03.12.15

I wanna stop all the nonsense and get back to the real. It is not for you to question me about what is real. It is not for me to decide what is real to you. This is what I like about it. Reality is personal. No one's got a lock on it. I used to smile watching people try to force their brand of reality down the collective throat. What an hopeless endeavor! The smile has gone away. I don't like to see how it hurts them trying. What a desperation about it. That's cold. Maybe I can talk to them. Maybe someone tried to shut them down, and told them what they think is real, is not. So now they are on a mission to show everyone just how real their real is? Maybe they just need to be seen and heard, and appreciated for a moment. Reassured that no one's gonna take their real away from them. Maybe that would help? There's a lot of wounded little children out there, in big adult bodies. Who am I to hate a wounded child? I wanna help a wounded child. I wanna help! Well, that's my real, anyway. I guess I just got back.