Mindful Tides

If Not Now, When?

You might be on the moon
But I am still yours from the stars


I’ve been loving the truth in your face
It’s the only look that you can’t hide
I’ve sent notes that your soul should be following
For your rational mind to deny
I’ve been sticking around for the captions
The minutes you make my heart high
Magazine clippings in heaven
Left on the bridges to find

Blame is a muddy pile of ugly words holding us in states of contention, stagnant apprehension, and we keep aging, wasting, and time keeps raging as we pull in everyone else, anybody else who can carry the burdens that we are feeding, and reading, they’re only imagined as we keep needing them. 

love is freedom above the bleeding.

Reality, Pt. 2

I’m heavy with ambition
And faith that can’t be more
Come immerse me in your weakness
The sweetness of our storm

Reality, Pt. 1

You don’t see yet
how trees bend for you
how they grow for you
how they die for you

The only way I’d say you’re flawed
Is if the leaves do not fall
If the winter does not come.


Talk it to rest, think it to death, drop it, pick it up, dust it off, pull it down, stretch it out, and whatever you do, don’t look at it for too long. A seed will sprout whether you watch it or leave it alone. The difference is whether you starve to death, or if you’re alive to see it bloom.


Close, you look like you
And one step back
The colors start to show
But from across a room
How could I’ve known
The masterpiece you are
Is even more elegant
From afar

It Still Seeps In

It still seeps in when I sleep. No matter how high I build these walls, no matter how much respect or understanding or ration is packed between the immense willpower and trust that cements it all together,

It still seeps in.


She dismounts a bike. She unplugs her music from right to left. She swallows her gum. She avoids a puddle. She walks with purpose. She walks with a mask and a frowning angel that sits on her shoulder. She picks up some trash. She looks for a sign. She treads water in an infinite pool of mindlessness. She sees clearly but still wonders what she’s missing. She feels right, and she feels wrong. She’s dark like tinted glass but is as conspicuous as the sun. She locks up her bike. She drops a bottle of water. She doesn’t really mind who notices. She sits in tall grass. She’s empty and she’s full.
She waits to see which direction the wind will blow.

“The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.”

—   Czesław Miłosz (via observando)

(via howitzerliterarysociety)