the dinosaur’s on his back
can’t sleep
the rain pours on and on
he felt an attack
frightened he rolled back
won’t be getting up for long
once gone
forgotten we move on
now it’s time to see the new
too fast
can’t let go of the past
we feel for the dust left on the shelf
the carousel’s spinning
and nobody’s winning
this war that can’t be found
our smile is hollow
the emotions we swallow
we’re left soaking on the ground
Venice
Paris
Brazil
Ontario
Malaysia
Costa Rica
Portugal
Seattle
Portland
Aruba
Spain
Swiss Alpes
New Orleans
Redwood Forest
San Francisco
Netherlands
Amsterdam
Dresden
Scotland
England
Iceland
Ireland
Egypt
Yellowstone
Grand Canyon
Northern Lights
Meteor Shower
Solar Eclipse
Comets
…
The anxiety of a looming storm
consumes me
I haven’t seen the sun for days
and thought it had been storming
but I was wrong
it has not even begun
Words cannot express
this sinking in my stomach
running from the storm
won’t stop it from unleashing
it’s unbelievable fury
and no umbrella can shield me
If it just continues to hover
I will go mad before one drop falls
Now I just wait
Alone
Afraid
Anxious
If birds are born with wings,
shouldn’t they be born to fly?
But some birds are unable to fly,
and some have their wings clipped.
What is to blame for such pain
of having wings,
but not having flight?
I suppose penguins find happiness;
they mate for life.
Then perhaps instead of born to fly,
they are born to love.
What, then, are humans born to do?
We cannot fly.
We can barely even love properly.
We’re known for having intelligence,
but what is intelligence
without happiness?
How is this life worth living
when all we have as a species
is our complex brain?
One which will surely
and inevitably
destroy us all
and everything around us.
We’ve done a splendid job so far.
What happened to harmony?
Community?
Living alongside nature
and at peace with each other?
Where has that gone?
What changed?
What could possibly be worth
sacrificing happiness
to end up as we are?
We think too much,
try to understand emotions,
and become wrecked
in a paradox, a never ending maze
trying to find something that’s not there.
We are humans,
and that is our fault,
but it is not our fault that we are humans.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Blame not my cheeks, though pale with love they be;
The kindly heat unto my heart is flown,
To cherish it that is dismayed by thee,
Who art so cruel and unsteadfast grown:
For nature, called for by distressed hearts,
Neglects and quite forsakes the outward parts.
But they whose cheeks with careless blood are stained,
Nurse not one spark of love within their hearts,
And, when they woo, they speak with passion feigned,
For their fat love lies in their outward parts:
But in their breasts, where love his court shall hold,
Poor Cupid sits and blows his nails for cold.
This is how it works
You’re young until you’re not
You love until you don’t
You try until you can’t
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath
No, this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope it don’t get harmed
But even if it does
You’ll just do it all again
The nomad walks a lonely life
Beyond the earth and sea,
Yet footsteps cannot rectify
the tattered love of me.
The wind will blow the sparkling sand
As passing moments go,
And with it in each crystal spark
Each memory does show.
