Sunday Morning

Nothing is rushed on a Sunday morning.

Nothing is wrong on a Saturday night.

Waking up late, starting your day,

Everything slow, but just right.

Taking your coffee,

Hands on both sides.

Listening to the sounds of outside.

Breathing in and breathing out.

Acknowledging your tasks.

Nothing is rushed on a Sunday morning.

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Bills and Banknotes

What a rut I’m stuck in

You speak and I listen

No room for lack or lust

No space but clouds of dust


A bit of smoke

Your soul evokes

We dance the line

It turns out fine


Such is the life

Of ours; a knife

I hold

Your hands are gold


Tired, stop.

Drifting off;

To sleep we go

The dreamer owes her debts.

Love

Love

We throw this simple word around, this emotion, this phrase that keeps us

In a daze, never truly understanding why

Standing under a veil of semi-trust, but when the 

Dust clears and we’re still here,

What is love, 

Really?

Is it a constant clockwise circle of endearment,

Sweet words and nothings that warm a heart,

Brushing away the dull misfortune and demise

And the lulls of each day?

A blessing in disguise, these hardships

That trip us into the arms of someone who’ll keep us

Safe from harm, turning our worlds up-side down

And inside out

Without a doubt, 

They capture a heart.

And is there silence?

Yes. And violence,

Though not as much,

And not the kind we know so well,

Recognizing the hell of this world,

Taking us to somewhere else.

See, we know what this is;

What it means

Is something that needs no definition,

No encyclopedia of hearts could help us now.

A Forest

Breathing, sleeping, breaking dawn.
Blowing wind, an alarm of air.

Absence of color, absence of warmth.

Spindly fingers of brown-eyed bark.

Time for sleep and for cold and for night.

Time for effervescent frozenness. 

Oh Sun, come out!

Do whisper to us your secrets of life.

Tell me to wake up.

Tell me to wake the forest.


a little winter poetry to warm you up. 

I don’t have to change

I’ve realized that my issue with change is not an issue at all. The issue is this ever-turning world of speed that reminds me of those futuristic dystopian novels over which I used to obsess. Everything goes too fast! We do not focus on the tasks at hand; rather, we occupy our minds with every moment but the present. The adults especially, those radical beings with deadlines and institutions of work, with a vibrant and unappreciative attitude toward the mundane. And by golly if we just slowed down for a bit of this precious time in our continuum, we might have a fraction of peace in the universe. It takes minimum effort. In fact, it requires virtually the opposite of effort. Try to space out your time. Believe that there is more than business.

Racing

I feel like I’m running…

Reaching.

Racing.

That’s it.

I’m racing… for something I can’t see.

I prize that can’t be won.

The wind?

The world?

The universe?

Everything…

Everything is winning…

The world is spinning,

And I

Am too dizzy to stop and reconsider.

I want to get off, get away

From this ride that keeps on

Spinning.