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An unharvested tree will only produce rot. Even a goddess will sour if trapped in a box. Tonight my back aches from the weight of wings unused.

No true poet claims to create beauty; he discovers it the way a tambura player discovers that perfect place on the string to stroke. Deep within your soul there is an antique table where the two Buddhas, Sorrow and Joy, sit to have tea. Their arms rest on the table’s edges as they lean close…
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Taste your sorrows the way a caterpillar sinks his feet in the mud- each of his leg hairs tremble as they lick the wet, savory earth.

I am in one of those moods again where I just want to kiss anything that moves. I would even kiss the Sun if he would let me, but instead he has climbed down his own sunbeam and nestled in my heart. Now, when I kiss the plants, the insects, or the Moon, they burn…
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You crack open my head like a coconut, snap off my wrist, and use my finger as a straw to suck out my water. My hand is a spoon to scoop out my meat. I am carved deep and empty. What remains of my shell is in love with you madly.

Soothing rains can only fill as deep as the shovel digs. Paradise is an island of beauty with winds of sorrow and bliss. Even quilts weaved from spiders and rainbows will rot when covering mold. But mold unmasked is sorrow felt deeply, waking the heart of the soul.

True conversion is not the swapping of words, the trading of dogma or the switching of casings that harden the heart. It is when the shells shatter from a swelled heart blossoming that we are truly born again. Read More: Poetry

I have become a caricature of myself. I splash paint at the mirror before me, trying to match its beauty. I am a dove gathering fallen feathers on the moss, trying to fashion wings. I am a fish wearing swim trunks.

Sometimes at night, or in the early morning when dim-orange streetlamps reflect off wet pavement, and silent breeze becomes truly silent, I finally see a tree as a tree, and my footsteps sound real.