They came to me for no particular reason

I held them cause I thought it was the season

You can't push the greats

the greats they simply pull their weight

I thought it might be my time to be that way

Im here and that is not even here nor there

I followed cause some where I lose that silly fear

You can make you way 

But that... ways not safe from change

Life will follow you but you soon wont run away

I left it lying some where in the grass of blue

All the stillness and wishing I someday knew

You can say and say

But doing never comes that way

Life is flying by so grab it by the precious main 

Popping Bubbles.

I am gaining a new understanding of life. And it is a shocking realization.

I am not safe.

We are told that "it could happen to us".

But I think that is wrong.

It WILL happen to us. Something. Tragedy. Heartache. Death.

This is not some stanza of glooming poetry.

It is a guarantee. 

I have watched these past two years punch me harder with each blow.

I fight back like a refrained child throwing a tantrum. Powerless.

I scream. I am ignored. 

Even the ones who are meant to protect me have exited stage right.

I stand lone, venerable to the audiences persecution.

No standing ovation tonight. 

No flowers in the dressing room.

This is not my demise. This is not my surrender.

I am now numbly stating facts according to my vision.

If the bubble I believed in ever existed...

It is now safe to say it popped.

Empathy

To spot a stranger from far away.

Not knowing their name or their story.

Never having even heard their voice.

You run to them. 

Simply by the look in their eye.

Feeling the loneliness they seep.

So much so that your own eyes tear

At just a sight of their far away stare.

You embrace.

For a moment, to each other you were strangers.

Now to each other you are 

Everything.

Dear Bits and Peaces,

How unexpected. Finding you here. Seeing you here. So completely in my reach. 

I kinda didn't need you, and thats what made it nice. 

Bungalow, blow and blow.

Find us under here. 

Where we talk too much about things we shouldn't know.

Blow Bungalow Blow.

In the Park

I wade quietly through the sun and the green.

In a wounded nest of mountains. 

Browned from fires, holding only the strong and loneliest trees.

Standing embarrassed of the space around them.

I want to hold their leafy hands.

Tucked away from my noisy concrete world.

I secretly indulge myself.

In time. 

Drinking it up selfishly as though no one else will miss it.  

I inhale now. 

So deep it hurts and with the exhale...

My weapons disarm. 

I am the soft underneath.

Belly up and vulnerable.

Exoskeleton cracked and torn away by eager fingers.

Be tender with me now.

As I am guilty from ever having complained.

Life is beautiful in my nest. 

I find comfort somewhere

Unexpectedly and too sleepy for searching.

My Box of Sunsets

 I watch the sun drip away behind the Hollywood Hills as I lie on the floor, alone again in my studio apartment. We are exposed. My apartment and I. The huge window bathes the tiny room, every inch in sunlight. The lights of houses twinkle through the foothills and as I contemplate the people who occupy those homes, I can't help but feel isolated. Starting over is bittersweet. The sky fades from blue to orange, my room darkens and my dog begins to snore. Safe inside my little box I watch the city play its rush hour dance through the glass of my window. Once again watching Hollywood through a box. But somehow the magic of television could never capture what I feel tonight. 

Like a tiny bird, I sit in an open cage. There was a time not so long ago when I believed the hardest part would be the breach of my little brass door, but now that it has flung wide with illustrious vigor, and my dreams lie so close that I see them in great detail, it is my awe that cripples me. And as the last bit of paint drains from my skyline, I wonder what colors I will bring to this place and if there is room for what I can offer. If somewhere in this city of rich and poor, young and old, business suits and dreaded locks, the artist and the homeless, one little bird can leave a stoke of color no one has ever seen before. 

Jumping is hard when you know you will fall and that no other option is probable. But it is not quite enough to avoid impending doom and be content with knowing I have the option to obtain the life I want. But in reality I am not at all sure about the life that I want. Not the details, not even the big picture. The unexpected moments that make me smile when I think of them years later. That's what I want. Great moments. Ones that manage to drastically change everything that I thought I knew about life. I don't want that to ever stop happening. 

Now the night washes over my view, live music and weekend voices come to me uninvited. The moon is full tonight and perhaps explains my mood. I think things that have been thought a million times by many people. I write words that have already been written, but tonight they are all my own. I am finding a big difference in knowing something and feeling it for the first time. I look forward to more firsts. And also more nights watching the sunset in this wonderful little box I call home

My Hero

 

                                                     If you don't know. You should.