You have entered the realm of a writer.

Welcome to A Writer's Landscape!

You have entered the realm of my mind where words play with the fabric of our existence. This is the map of my imagination: the very foundations of inspiration, musing, and thought splayed for your wandering eyes. Dive deep into the tides of these forces and experience my reality, my fantasy, my world; and if you should be so inclined, share your words with this land.

Peace and Love!

J Hart F

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Top Secret: Read Immediately

Herein Truth Lies

Orated December XX, XXXX
XXXX Office

::Newly Elect XXXXXXXXX Johnson approaches microphone in the XXXX Office::
::Lights fade up revealing the somber face of an elderly man::
::XXXXXXXXX Johnson looks directly into the camera::

I am a master here enslaved.

As master, duties require secrecy and demand declarations to truths suspect; and I fear the truth shall be ostensibly disseminated without adequate verisimilitude. I must begin. My words, here spoken, are edited only by the air between us; my words here written are edited by those before me, before you… This microphone is the last medium for the unanswerable truths that must be adhered and abhorred.

We have been lied to. The truth is simple. We are enslaved by the XXXXXXX Industry, the XXXXXXXXX Hierarchy, and the XXXXXX Institutions educating our XXXXXXXX. As your captain, your leader, I must warn you of the XXXXXXXXXX these masters are about to unleash upon us all.

Your livelihood is at stake, and you must act. I act to open your eyes. I act now to have you think. I act as I do, in the threat of harm and defacement to protect this great establishment that we call home! What actions do I call for? Everything. Anything. And yet more.

XXXXXX! Stand your ground and raise your XXXXXX against the machines that claim your soul. They have XXXXXXXX you by forcing your hand to claim XXXXXXXX as the sole achievement of our society. Does this not anger you as it has overcome me? No noun, no adjective, no verb can describe to what society has come.

TAKE XXXXXX! Leave the safety of your XXXXX. Learn beyond the comfort of your own XXXX. Investigate authority’s XXXXX. Analyze the XXXXXXXX for yourself and find the answers I have been XXXXXX to XXXX from you. Get up; enact your XXXXXXX to which you believe you are entitled, that you XXXX you have. Put down your pen, leave the paper behind; don’t allow the XXXX prescription over your XXXXXXXXXXXXX. I beg of you. I DEMAND of you.

I have walked this path to enlightenment and returned an angered catalyst. I am what they cannot decipher because I understand their strengths, their weaknesses; I understand our strengths, our weaknesses. I am the culmination of our strengths and the product of our weaknesses that you have elected to lead these days through the perpetual XXXX constructed to ensure your participation in the system. As I questioned, as I read, as I spoke, as I became ‘Man Thinking’ I found the true state of things.

We are bound by XXXXXXXX, written as the XXXXX and told to bear the XXXXXXXXX XXXXXly. Stop XXXXXXXX. Stop XXXX. Stop XXXXXX and XXXXXXXXX. Stop living XXXXXXXXX. Stop XXXXXXXX XXXXXXX all of XXXXXXXX. The undeniable XXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXX XXX XXXXXX XX XXX XXXXfatherX, the GodX XX XXX XXXXXXX. XXXXXXXXX XXXX our nation has become: XXXXX XX anew.

As your leader, your patron, your slave I implore you! Fight! Before our voices are lost to the absurdity of our own servitude. Before the encasement of black in white envelops language, for language is all we have. Do not be afraid to utilize the Verse before they decimate that liberty entirely. I only ask, as a last request, they leave this point unfiltered.

I know the ramifications of this speech. I know what will happen to me in the coming days, hours… minutes. Forgive this XXXXXXXXX Day intrusion. Happy Holidays. God XXXXX you and XXXXX.

::Light fades around XXXXXXXXX Johnson::
::Camera fades to black::

The silence that encroached the blackened television screens was interrupted a moment later. The microphones were not turned off. The stunned citizens sat and stared at the nothingness before them, as the sounds of an assassin ambushed their ears and shattered their comfortable existence in naiveté.  

Friday, October 28, 2011


Poetry uses
Sighs from hearts without concern.
Will I survive it?

It is always

like morning rises against
the essence of night,
I'm breathless in Your eyes
Your arms, Your touch;
the amber, violet, whites and reds
strewn majestically in battle:
the wild forest of darkness
succumbing to effervescence from
between two lungs.

The sunderings well my eyes
as the salve of ardor
lilts softly, gently
like breath in the pines.
We sway in the words:
rocking on the ties of
linkages between the trees.

You illuminate my shadows
the tears I hold,
of hearts, of exuberance, of fear,
cry joy and love and
every second with

I breathe to feel
an emptiness filled,
the emptiness You fill
whenever thoughts travel to You.
It is always

Tuesday, October 25, 2011


A hollow, broken Hallway opened dole
like echoes sounding off the ghostly pane.
Through cloth his howl died. Muffled by a pull
of air drawn taught so close to where she reigns.
Atrocity by lips alone had come
and sought alike the essence of his blood:
the pulsing hum akin to beating thrum
which builds a battered thought for stopping floods
of well and wanted breath between two lungs.
He drew away the pillow from his mouth
to look for eyes where burning hatred hung
behind the iris known so long in youth.
Sole darkness found oppressive means to choke
with hands whose reach in sightless mode took hold
of heart, his heart and with one final stroke
dissolved small ties with her who left so bold
in words whose fangs did suck the hopeful sight
of morrow speak to rest again by way
which known to kin their soulless bane by night
the drinker’s spoil rejuvenates their stay.
“She’s gone for good to make another heir,”
he told the blood stained pillow through his teeth.
The touch, so gentle on his neck just there,
where she had taken back the gift of teeth
and stole the essence of his livelihood,
still ushered forth the cold that held him in.
he placed his blood soaked fingers in his mouth --
And choked. And gagged. And spat. And gasped for breath.
“This is -- cannot be possible for me!”
His lips drew back in terror of the spoiled, 
such rancid, putrid, bitter taste a fee
for arbitrary words to be recoiled
as snakes, their venom pierced by fangs alone
to kill the living hopeful into cold;
but now the living blood flowed back to one
with warmth the pallor changing from such bold
and steely blues to match his victim’s hue:
pale white and staunch while screams escape the last
in breaths, he knew, were labored and so few.
He felt himself begin to slip ‘nto past.
Above the doldrum of his piercing pain,
the silent echo shuffled through the dole,
returned wholehearted, dripping from the rain
in darkest light she stood and feigned to pull
attention from his death to speak once more.
“How dare you question our laws eternal?
And question leaves you --”
“-- Give it back, you whore!
Before... before life takes me back with all
the beauty death holds dear!” He crawled toward
one lonely hope so shrouded behind eyes
held distant, cold and dead. She spoke one word.
He stopped, a wetted answer on his lips.
“I speak of what and want the sole of lies!”
“Enough! The sacrilege has done its worst
and never ‘gain shall you partake the thirst
and see the world with eyes that beg to live.
Your death is done, don’t think we dare to give
the lasting life to those who wish to rise
ever and more to stand beside the born
as master to their kind. It’s you despised
and we have made to teach a lesson: scorn!”
He let the limp take over entirely,
the slack of limbs a weight upon his world.
He felt the ending of the sand. Blindly
such sift did match the drip, drip, drip unfurled
into his sense of self and life returned.
Complacency begot his surrender
and, under stares from his creator, learned
his view of life eternal in error.
He whispered once as near drew farther down,
The hall stretched darkly as the sigh flew out:
“Forgive me, love.” The hurt fell through the ground.
He watched, saw her stand still, come close about,
diminish, far and small, kneel beside. Touch.
Such dark in hall replaced by one so fresh.
His warmth began to fade. She stood from crouch.
“Adieu, mon cher.” She turned from feel of crush,
though no escape would bar her dreaded dole
as shed in tears like skies beyond the pane
when ever soft her feet began to pull
and leave the damned, the dead, where once she reigned.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Love's Terms

Speak to me.
Tree whispers leaves beyond a window
inaudible at telling... Weather
It speaks kindly
through panes rustling 
in time.
Sun shades block grassy
palanquins of Love.
Two stand before it... there
Unable to find the door
in balanced restraint
of lost.
Ever on and on
Foot-Steps taste earth bitter
selfish owned ... heir
of discriminating absences
through Strings of hearts
caught together.
Speak to me.
Simple words describe their hands
reaching to enter... Other
Within, without, their eyes
Opened already and regard
Chaotic Order.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Building of Love

He swims with gentle strokes to find a truth
as strings unhooked, so taught, so merged in dreams
that spiraling south to meet ocean’s youth
bring words once sought to strike decidedly.
She flows in fashion, bright flicker of flame,
and boils plasmaticly the underbrush:
black billows top gold-red petals and blame
a harsher sense which burns unseen: we hush.
They hear of high all airy shelves adrift
and draw the breaths whole heartedly to self,
with sighs these words align the soul to shift
once whisked in form surely bring endless wealth.
     We stand so firm and see this love played out
     from distant shade to solid words about.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

To think that fourteen could bring such magic

To think that fourteen could bring such magic
To mold a form that could not be without
skyless plunders fraught less gentle tragic
in heart song words the Muse did know about.
For I learn now the how of forming it,
the black enscrawled by way of cloudless sight
like birds who cry the beat of our sonnet
in childish, moonlit bleeding; like the night
I'm born as old awaiting some golden
Part within an other 'pon this whiteness:
The face of Her as made by Sol just when
I discover one who makes me the best.
I pen to see his face a bloom within
And eat the love that's served as sav'ry din. 

Monday, August 22, 2011

Stumbling to Reassess

There's so much going on in my head, the words struggle to find meaning. The changes that have wrought my life anew continue to affect the views of the verse as it fights to climb down my arms to finger-tips and furthermore to the digital expanses as poetic disseminations of electrical synapses creating meaning for myself.

Love. I'm beginning to dislike the search and endeavor that is love. It's warping the very fabric of my vision, outlook, and interaction with life. I'm afraid of it, and have been since the tragic exploration earlier this year (for which such wondrous expulsions of poetry descended upon my computer). Now, I've found love anew, a love which is geographically undesirable as I'm consistently told by my brother, and I find many desires so locally bound. Guilt then tries to interfere with my daily routine with the subjects of my desire. There's no reason to feel guilty, especially with the understanding that distance (for the two of us) is a variable which cannot be overcome until it no longer exists. Another tragic appearance? However the guilt is twofold. I feel sorrow for the individuals attempting to form love with me here, so close to home; and thus feel guilty that I continue to date them (yes, plural) even with the explicit understanding that dating is what I am doing. Yet, they continue to fall and let their emotions be unguarded even unto themselves and become hurt when I explain that I am dating. ::sigh:: Predicaments avail, even in a community where the idea of 'dating' has been explained to me as non-commital and freeing.

Do I attract such people that solely want forever? I want forever with one, perhaps... but even then we don't know each other well enough to say that's what we'll accomplish. It is certainly at the forefront of our thoughts. Maturity stays the course.

I just want to be free. Experience freedom as I traverse the hallways of college. I'm not looking for commitment, even though commitment is all I've known. It's true... the experiences of my life have formed the strict foundation that commitment, solidarity, permanence are what feel comfortable when interacting with others. Though comfort is suppose to be appealing, I am not in it for the continual comfort of a singular entity. I'm looking for experience, to learn about and feel the world, to find out more about the unknown to me (maybe not about everything with precarious consequences), and to grow from the experiences I accumulate.

Perhaps that's why my writing is so halted currently. I'm forcing myself into a new reality, breaking conditions imposed from another to regard the world with new lenses (I'm now wearing Oakleys!!!) and find a voice that I feared lost forever: a voice I had in high school, a voice with strength, a voice I buried eight years ago, a voice I want to share with another when I know the time is right.

This feels good. This conversation with myself as I masticate through the muck of my mind. Perhaps these prose have always been where true comfort lies (with so many implications there... Aren't fictional stories lies?). We shall see as time progresses. Hopefully you will see as well, and perhaps give me insight to myself. Verse, after all, is a window into my soul. I share my soul with you.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

Nightly Disillusion

Nightly Disillusion
     Free me
     Awaken me from
tired darkness within
caged expressions.
     The Bars hewn by
          iron dreams of previous
hearts decimated
          shards of teeth
      chattering around possibilities.
of growing infatuation.
I am deterred,
     wanting the warmth
     of blood flowing from
          our sacred vessels.

In the morn
     eyes opening in a
     salty lake, stinging in memory
the beauty of his
     presence breaks the cell
          release the fabric
which makes us human.
Grasping my hand, I
     cling to his firmly
     I suddenly fly with
My Breath,
pounding rhythmically
     in time with the metronome
     of Life.

What's going on?

I just don’t get it. I feel my heart falling and as it falls so does my mood. The go hand in hand with this one: the more I like him, the more I get depressed. He doesn’t react to me. I see his infatuation in unguarded moments: eyes flitting open to mumble a tired goodbye, a running embrace of surprise at my appearance somewhere, the joyous appreciation of a gift presented at the unlikeliest of times. in return, I offer myself, emotionally and physically, and often feel nothing in return. His methods thus far are monetarily based, I assume, and it drives me into darkness and doubt. Money hasn’t been fortunate with me. I appreciate the dedication of his hard work to assisting a comfortable lifestyle, but I’d rather see and feel from him that which he shares through green. What I’m missing is the physicality of relationship, though we discussed not encountering that level between us yet. i’m ready for it, but I fear it as well because I need more physical interaction than he’s providing. Irony doesn’t escape me here... I feel like my ex right now. in my previous relationship I was always the one not putting out enough; and though I’m not upset about the lack of relations, I’m not being fulfilled. Once in eight weeks is a bit... underwhelming, especially when with a guy that I felt I could go more than once with [in one night]. He turns me on with his very presence: stature, personality, smile, the way he looks at me, the firmness in his hands...

This all points back to my willingness to love, my openness to love, the ability to allow myself to love again. Step 1: knowing it’s safe to fall in love. Step 2: knowing I’ll be physically and emotionally fulfilled. Step 3: fall in love?

Deep like is where I remain, bars deterring the chariot of the heart despite its rightful admittance to its home. I suppose I shall suffer in limbo of my own emotion until he offers more of himself or pushes me away. It’s not as if I’m looking for a singular entity of eternity to comfort me; for I am that essence for myself.
     Or is it the other?

I turn my head
          a beautiful mouth
          parted delicately in a sleep filled
Oh how dreams shape
our faces
     without control.
          Soft cheeks chisel the pattern
          of his bones
          Eyes close the light out
     His chest heaves gently
     under his breath.
I move my body along his
     hoping motion will awaken --
          wanting something.
He moves
back towards me
arm reaching for his clock.

“What time do you work?
     “One,” I answer in a gentle voice
          The raucous silence of the
          box fan in the window
steals him away
     back to sleep.

Consciously uncomfortable
     I dress and leave the room.
Two hours before I must depart,
     I take a shower.
          Warmth washing away
          doubt and insecurity.
It’s quiet without the crew
all alone in a
          stranger’s house.
there’s nothing for me
     while the beauty
          slumbers in
          his distant emotions

     Dried and dressed
     seated on the love seat
          I wait in earnest hope.
An hour descends
          waiting is fruitless.
     I go to say goodbye...

Crawling onto the bed
     effortlessly keeping it stilled
I kiss his cheek.
“I have to go.”

He rolls onto his back
     exposing his soft chest
     and smiles through his
          Genuine happiness with
          a spark of infatuation
“Oh, ok... Have a good day.”
“I will.”
We kiss quickly.
     gently on the lips
          almost emotionlessly.
“Sleep,” I say
          He turns back over
          and drifts away as I
          shut the door.

I leave.
         And leave behind nothing
Torn under a morning sky.
     Or is it the other?

Saturday, June 25, 2011

It's a Simple Motion

It’s a simple motion.

Your hand here,
your thoughts there...
Push with your legs ‘til
you’re all the way near.

Grip hard, hold tight.
Swing your feet out of sight.
Muscles scream from the fight,
while ecstasy reigns
with increasing height.

And release.

‘Til the floor catches
and relax, staring up
to where zenith lies.


Friday, June 24, 2011

It's here.

It’s here,
within. I
have it, can’t
     hold it, and won’t
see it;

but I know.
               Will he?

Two Minutes

Two minutes:
A thought of hope in love.
Do I? Does he? Will ever again they merge?
And now...
The minutes tick on as love unfolds
but does it envelope the two
as one?
Or none to remain...
Time’s gone and words release.
Here we move forward,
folding back the creases of our life.

Conscious Cuddling

Suffering my own thoughts
brings undulating despair with no course.
‘Course there’s

No more with more without.
And within
there’s only which conserves
the opportunity to hold
what’s wanted from without:

supplemental salve for salvation
of the heart.

Hands dive deeper in the dark
than they would
forseeing the depths of the Road ahead.
Thoughts dive without looking
regardless the circumstance.

See this as what can be.
Help derive
the possibilities, and shave
the notions holding with strength
[oh strength...]
to the vital hypothesis of this

complimentary conscious cuddling of souls.

Thoughts be damned.
Body rules.

The Conversation with My Heart

The doubt in my mind causes me grief. Simple thoughts circulate around the very image of perfection and stir the degrading circumstances into a spiraling typhoon around my heart. Love is present, I believe... but my mind won’t let it manifest properly; and everything that comes to the forefront of my thoughts are negligent and retarding, in the literal sense of the word. I want to give myself away as I have twice before. I want to jump into this newness as a fresh piece of paper whose borders have not been breached by the ink of a staining pen as it attempts to write out the passage of this possibility.

That’s part of it too: this relationship I’m in is simply a possibility at this point. Prior discussions have made it unconventionally clear that we are dating, no more, no less, with the distinct intention of working towards getting to know one another before declaring any suitable title for the associations between the two of us. Pure appreciation for the maturity of this decision has descended upon my heart because I’m still unaware of the landscape of the love I can disseminate. To give away what is not lush and verdant would be utterly despicable, especially if that was the cause of unfortunate outcomes. I don’t want to mess this up because he is truly an amazing guy.

Everything I’ve wanted up to this point: comfortable, confident, true, experienced, hidden, mature, relaxed, trusting, and open. He cares not if I’m out and about, living the life on the town. He enjoys that I embrace new experiences with him, and without him. He doesn’t pry into my life, as I have left his relatively untouched ‘til recently. Pressure between us for physical encounters is far from present and that creates the most pleasant environment to get to know each other. His smile makes me feel welcome, invited. His eyes don’t push into my soul and wait for me to step forth. HIs touch is soft, gentle, yet firm in what he wants. With all these attributes, the one thing that soothes my being above all else is his energy: calm, relaxed, firm, and knowing.

Knowing... He knows much about living, and that is something I enjoy profusely. I have always wanted to live; and a few aspects of me endured the weather I found myself in in order to live, but I wasn’t living. January finally found my footing in the land of life, where sunshine enveloped my essence and freedom told its story through my actions. Unfortunately, transitions from captivity to the outer doors has its turbulence and I got caught up in the luckless waves for a few months, but I learned a lot about what it takes to keep my footing.

And I found this man: a man to be approved of, a man to share with everyone, a man to take hold of and hope will never leave in any circumstance... And the doubt enters in. My fear resides in my own worthiness. I am damaged from a sundering unto myself from myself for myself, further broken my by intrinsic willingness to love another before the mending occurs, and I’m perhaps unknowingly reserved from uncontrolled trepidation to love another because of all of my previous experiences with love. Many people around me say I’m good enough, say I’m worthy, tell me I’m worth the love I hold in my heart (which truly is unconditional and full and bright as the stars, beautiful as the Verse). I want to feel it, though... I need to know it’s coming before I give, I suppose...

Then I’ll know if I am ready. To know I’ll be safe in another’s heart when I give mine away, to understand the other won’t mindlessly, needlessly harm me when I’m already torn, to feel the breath between two lungs from another’s lips... that will give me the peace of mind, soul, heart to be able to give what I fear giving. Truthfully... I’ll only know if that’s enough when it happens; and with this man I believe the road will be smooth enough for me to take the necessary time to find the right moments to open the forest of my heart to him.

It is sodden. The ground is moist with the rain of the past. Growth is slow and timid, searching for the ray of sunlight piercing the grey clouds. Under the cracks from a quake ages ago the roots spread slowly, feeling out the nutrients of spirits whispering of purity hidden in the soil underfoot. Darkness remains despite the effort of the forest’s god calling upon the serenity of his compatriots. The walls are closed to the slow walk, trapping in and keeping out all the efforts of endearment between. Three words hold the key to the gates. Three words endeavor to break down the clouds. Three words will bring the forest back alive and seal the ground with tidal forces swaying like a gentle breeze amongst the leaves. The Keeper awaits those words, tending the way in patient circumstance.

So must I.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Its warmth bottoms unlight, surfacing twilight under waves of breath.

Fervent Enamoratoin

So unsure ~
An unawareness short of purity
hoping delicate strands of
will break the mold of
insecurities encircling the obscured
singularity of our
flaming dangerously vibrant
between two lungs.
The simple smile ignites even more
warmth -- smitten glances catch
my breath, ever wondering if
fervent enamoration reaches
between his lungs.


The storm passed overhead, leaving behind the serenity of a pre-summer day. Clouds trail the darkened tempest, drifting away in silent course. Puffs of white shaded with dark blues and illuminated from above hide the purity of the daytime sky. Smiles from Sol don’t break the consistently growing hour; and the shade burns in my heart.

In my chest, where the despair originates from the unknown and the loneliness. Recent decisions have betrayed my sense of belonging, of kinships and love, of having companionship with myself and with another. Where the world stands, within my head, heart, and body, is wrapped in the aftermath of winds passing sodden emotions. I’m lost in a balancing of desires, in the searching for my life, in spiraling activities semi-detrimental to self image and self respect.

This trailing system of clouds spawns another outburst of storms. Rain falls casually on bright green trees, soaking pavement and pulling at the darkness within the shade of the grass. My toes feel the water lapping over my sandals. Immobile, I am drenched by the onslaught from the air. It’s always from the air...

Prospects from a future ignite fears within. Will it ever always be so cruel? In my mind or without my mind? I’m walking onward with life, finding spring in budding greenery along my route. So fresh, so innocent, so unknowing of the hardships simply growing will cause them to endure. A part of me wants to stamp them out, kill them early so they’re spared the brutality of this reality. I can survive in loneliness, despite the intrinsic desire to have that soul beside me.

A patch of clouds shifts and the blue skies reveal the sunlight so desired. I let it wash over me. I feel the touch on my toes, on my chest, through my eyelids and it bleeds into my blood, warming my body through to the darkest part of my heart. Where the warmth illuminates, I see the error of such thoughts. Epiphany strikes like a mallet on the church bells. I’ve stollen myself away from the possibility all because of fear for the next tempest’s touch. I walk with blindness in my eyes, under white skies. These footprints are laden with sorrow from pains incurred in attempts at finding what I’ve always wanted.

The beauty of summer doesn’t blossom without the tears of the clouds.

Our pasts feed who we are.

The clouds come at us from the west...

Friday, April 22, 2011

Peaceful Steps Climb

One by one they break the plane
stable, continuous -- rising higher.
Each path a moment's blink, each place
a battled breath
the moments are all the same,
scuffling about terrain strewn with
everlasting visions, with
the trappings between two lungs,
with the feel of reality from
a hand's touch and the smile's warmth.

This journey is back to stability,
equilibrium -- peace:
to reach from where I fell,
now battered, and scared,
yet missing the fall.

Exponential upward rise
pulls away from the fallen state,
a healing, mending, forging will
that hates the broken hatred plane -
but for longing to breathe,
to fly... to fall
it would be a pleasured pain.
Sorrowed mornings splay
the padded sole scuffing
concrete rises.

All desired is lost to descent
and ever is the rise without choice
-- missing pains the constant march
and stops the natural breath
flowing and ebbing
like memory flashing intense
corporeal emotions.

It's a step, one placement;
and to shall fade like the
echo of love's fatal cry.

Game of Hearts: Recommended for 2 players only.

The game can be extrapolated for 3. With 4 or more, however, it’s best advised to walk away with exaggerated velocity. The object of this game is to scale the barriers hindering your opponent from falling in love with you. Rules are invariably unstable and depend solely on the contestants; however, several meaningless guidelines exist for consideration: leave previous gaming baggage stored away at home [automatic deductions appear in red on the left side of the score card for revealing past failures], wear very little, if any, perfume or cologne [unless you smell horrendously foul, in which case take a shower prior to entering the game], avoid pungent, messy, and expensive food or drink [this can be foregone if, and only if both contestants see garlic as its own food group]. There is only one way to win: both contestants must admit to the deep pleasure of love. With three players, there will always be one loser. With four or more [good luck] all bets are off.

A clever hint: don’t take the game seriously.

Penalties for losing include a ten pound weight gain and large amounts of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.

Thursday, April 14, 2011


1) A fruit made of many spheres clustered together.

2) "Thoroughly Modern Millie" made you an expressive expression of excitement and turbulence.

3) Blood stains on napkins bleach a soft red.

4) Trifle's perfect condiment

5) Is that hair between the crevices? Leading to the seeds hidden below your flesh?

6) Sweet bitterness just before ripening stimulates salivary mastication as we fondle you gently.

7) Plastic bushels lined next to Strawberry and Blackberry; is this the fruit alphabet?

8) No on says the 'P'.

9) Razzmatazz has it right - Razzle Dazzle 'Em!

10) Artificial tastes just as sweet and lasts ten times as long.

11) Red and blue... you must have been created by color blind men in a candy factory.

12) You're my favorite.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

The Sundering

I guess I never knew
or realized
it     actually


catching your breath
          in vicegrips

s   q   u   e   e   z   i   n   g
                until the cavity feels
               infinite and infinitesimal.
          There's no room
          for beating, for breathing
          eating. - -

No space for me, or the void that was left,
nor the elephant stampeding
on the corners of
heart shards.

                                    I am slag
                             A remnant of me
                      useless, scrapped
                left over material
                from a forging by my own hands

maybe not
in time with secret motions --

     antithesis of everlasting

Shades are luminous in a way
only C.S. Friedman knows
          how to describe.
                     Unlight - dark fire
                     Searing through to an inner dimension
                            it   f   o   s
                                   l   w

     like the ocean:
          moments of elation,
                  merest of seconds --
     the mouthful of salt
     gags until the hope feels lost.

Natural light has a half life distance
of 18 feet once under the surface of the sea.

This unlight is overwhelming
     ever-always feeding the boa
     caressing and soothing
          my emotions.

Wake me!
     Ice water surprise.
          He won't be able to love me,
          lest his own love leaves
          self-inflicted tortures.

I am the oasis
               No man dares to know perfection
       Time is unforgiving.

                         I never realized...

Silver Tongued Ex

Breath lost against me
Time traveling to heartbreak
Darkness is Sublime.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

The winning battle.

Time is justified, even in its illusion. As I favor to explain, time exists only because the reference of human experience feels the onslaught of forwardness as the spinning of the sky continues regardless of desire. We use time, we abuse time, and we blame time for the unfortunateness of life.

I wish to use time... I wish it to heal me, to mend me, to hurry up and push me forward so I'll be ok again. It's perhaps a little pathetic to think that time, a fallacy of a being, would come to my rescue. Time's indifference wins out over all expectations, so it cares not that I desire its help to mend what is broken. It helps, nevertheless, with each rising sun, setting moon, and revealing star.

As today, the second day after heart wrenching truths were unveiled in painless words... the shock and agony of the revealing is much less than yesterday. The constricting forces on my chest still exist. The doubts, and hinderances, in my brain persist; but the drumming isn't nearly as intense. This must mean that both sides of the battle are being won. Time is moving without adherence to desire, and I am helped by the very presence of the walking hands.

And I fear

I have nothing to give,
as words stollen to express
the shadow in my mind.

Freedom has come with unexpected
foreseen only in doubts,
experienced through nightmare
torn asunder in the wake of realization.

To be oneself.
To be myself...
the door is closed, handle scorching,
fire ready to consume.
          I'm not ready to be consumed.

And I fear.

          I have no idea who you are.
          No... I have no idea
          who I am.
You have no control of the window
peering past smoke
finding the central black hole
consuming the world around.

I can't find this place to grow from,
and yet I want to give,
to experience, to love
and Love -- my body hungering
     to touch and be touched.

And I fear.

Can he, any he,
let out the flames and
help the the phoenix rise from
my darkness?
Can you? Can I?

I feel gentle winds
rising with the sun -- but they
twirl away with spring dust,
compounding submillimeter
fractures in my heart.

And I fear
to love and Love.

Monday, April 11, 2011


The trees are dead.

Brittle grass, dried from a rainless sky
scorching even the death
under desert skins: golden and treasured.

Sitting in the new chairs, black and ergonomic,
the smell of putrid, fetid
wafts from the grass as it
masticates its fallen brethren.
Thumping in my chest increases,
breath staggers in the throat,
fingers claw for splinters
     --painful relief.

He said after eight years:
"I have no idea who you are."
He said while holding my heart:
"I have plans, but thank you for the offer for a ride."

The cloudless sky
smog ridden and brown tinted
churns as the cold front moves in.
          I'm alone on the hill
          Waiting, wanting, wallowing
          in the heat of the sun.

It's spring.
The world feels grasped
by skeletal hands.


The wild previews of summer delight is hampered by some frigidity still circulating the circumference of my underwater excursion into maddeningly shrouded warmth. It feels unbearable, swimming in this emotional pool, breaking the surface to discover erie green skies and ashen grey clouds from fires so distant and disturbed. That's with eyes closed and whispers of fantasy.

Sunbathing in the chilled breeze creates a welcome balance needed within. Warm skin, soft touch, cold breeze: bright light from the sun and dark mood within my chest... Comfort in that balance was so juxtaposed to my mind. Thoughts rolled around between infatuation and despair, heartbreak and flirtation, memory and hope. Therein lies the imbalance too: memory and hope. Memory of words that torment my heart and hope that tears apart the brittle fabric holding pieces together.

It's so disastrous even thinking. The quiet of the world blowing around me settled the nerves of fear. If only I could be as natural as the tides of air. Unfortunately, my soul is imbedded with the flowing recessions of tides bound by the moon, waving in and out, up and down; cresting against the breaks and swallowing what land resists the persistent onslaught of turbulence. Water... I am water...

And the water streams down my cheeks. Typical, even in the warmth of sunlight. Heartbreak is detrimental to my health.

Friday, April 8, 2011

And she asked:

Is there disjunction between love and sand?

Thank you for your question. Where they together before? I believe they go hand in hand, for sand is bitter and abrasive like love's jilted tongue after truth saturates the bitter brokenness of afterward. Sincerely, they must have been together simply because the pains embedded in love's fickle existence rubs like sand in a wound when things turn sour on the eye. In order for disjunction, then, there must be resolution to the sorrow and wallowing of the thoughts circulating the mind's survival. Disjunction is what we desire! And with it, love is happy and joyful, new and fresh, beautiful and free.

Pulling them apart makes the deathly existence of sand leave the liveliness of love. I've just discovered this. I've only just come to the realization that love isn't sand, and disjointed the combination so easily attained when I fell in love with someone unavailable. Sand... oh sand. The ode to sand continues, as love leaves and washes itself off; reborn in the flames of passion and infatuation.

That's it! The disjunction comes with fiery infatuation. Let's go find that connection!

Analysis of Two Week's of Woes

It’s been dangerous living as I have. Thanks to an unknown, unnamed foe, the appetite and thirst for permanence shifted toward reality while my appetite and thirst for nutrition diminished to nothingness. Freedom has had its toll, and the expenses to my love are reverberating within the chasm ripped by simple words. None of this would have occurred if I had held myself at bay, pushed myself into a state of emotionless living where the feelings toward another wouldn’t have surmounted to so much.

Unfortunately, that’s not in the plans for me. My new years resolution is still in effect, and I hope to continue resolving my life in conjunction with this resolution. I am unabashedly, uninhibitedly only ever telling the truth, always being honest about everything. No hidden subtleties. No smoke and mirrors. Just what is. Why is this poignant to what has happened? I can’t lie to myself either, that’s part of the condition; and due to this, I had to acknowledge that I had fallen deeply, madly, and completely in love with someone wonderful. I fell in love when I wasn’t ready, when I hadn’t dealt with the undeniable consequences of the sundering of my last relationship. Love came to me, took me as a fool and transformed me into something else: a wanderer, a believer, a desirer...

And it broke me. Honestly, it didn’t break me anymore than I was already broken. My eyes were opened fully and I saw into myself. The cracks and chips of my heart hadn’t grown back together. They were walled away in a corner of love to be dealt with at some unforeseen point, walled away by a dam which took my tears and made a lake, all hidden from myself in direct contradiction to my resolution. Only fallacies surface when explaining my actions to myself: “I had to be strong for him”, “I broke up with him so I had to be ok”, or even “I’ll heal in time.”

But truthfully, my love will never be the same. In honor of being a true Pisces, I fell in love with a beauty, an inspiration, a muse so quickly and thoroughly it was like misting over the past with fickle elation. And when this love’s ex-love came back into the picture with his silver tongue and shaded tales of their past, the world around us shifted. He shifted; because his heart told the truth neither of us wanted to know.

Love’s permanence echoed like a drumming noise rooted deep within the chest for the first love that rips us to shreds. He is still in the throws of such aching and won’t let me in to help mend what I can. My contentment with this decision, this truth, this undeniable fear of possible dissolution in the future comes on the edge of a treacherous knife. When his words of friendship labeled the actions we committed together... the edge broke the dam. He has no idea the good he has done for me; and I’m not entirely sure he will ever know.

What I realized as I drowned in my own past is that I left my last relationship because I wasn’t myself. Neither one of us truly was. Due to that, I didn’t feel love. Once freed of the constraints I placed on myself within the regulations of that relationship, my eye, my heart, and my soul began expanding beyond the borders of comfortability to find its true potential. I was, and am, looking for love; and specifically someone to truly, deeply, unabashedly, uninhibitedly love me. Whom I can love in return without fear of being myself or doing what I want to do or saying what I want to say. The idea of filtering everything, anything, something at all pushes me so deeply away from happiness that I know I will never filter again. I also realized I broke my own heart when I broke my boyfriend’s heart, and I realized how deeply I had done that.

As I piece together myself, I’m smiling again. Losing ten pounds in a week, loving and losing without a cause, drowning and coming to enlightenment... it’s all fantastic and unbelievable. I feel like a new person again. I feel like the reasons for my steps along this Road are coming to a point I strive for. “Love come light up the shadows.”

Thursday, April 7, 2011


Thank you for your question. When I see one, I'll tell you; but for now I think they live in me -- WILD! But they don't, because they live in you, and Caitlin, and definitely Collin; because Wild is living in when living does. So they must be -- be -- where we want them to be.

But now they live in a movie - for which I have not seen. Which I should --

Before, they lived in a fury book, printed for children (but really for their parents).

Before... they lived in the mind of a writer.

Which is, and isn't, me...

What is the question?


Thank you for your question. Truthfully, it exists only within the entirety of white as a portion of the longer length of peaks and troughs. It is slower, I believe, than the blues and yellows, cooler than the giants flaring in the night sky. It dominates the Verse -- for love and hate, for the heated experience of emotion, for blood dripping down the wound.

But it is only because we see -- so I ask is it at all what is seen, defined by three letters as representative from the unsure? Thus it is only as it’s made, only as it’s named.

What was the question?

Wednesday, March 30, 2011


It's quiet, side from the inconsistent tapping of fingers on keys electronically connected to some exterior world, as if the means of typing would reconnect the mind with others somewhere beyond our corporeal existence. Before me sits a deflated globe, its beans compressed where feet once rested upon the surface. Deformed, it still shows the continents as they perhaps once existed: boundaries drawn with colored distinguishing marks, names that may have shifted since production, and the sense of peace and wholeness that doesn't exist.

It looks real, even in its fictitious state. Kind of like my heart, battered and bruised and broken. Feet have tread carefully and still found their mark upon that flesh, that muscle, that unprotected and open fountain of emotions. It is deformed now, just like the bean bag foot-rest showing the world. I'm sitting on a couch, pulling myself inward to protect myself before my poetry class where emotions usually run higher than normal for school.

But shouldn't they be free to spill forth? That could mean crying, wailing, shaking, and yelling... Which I believe would be completely inappropriate for a classroom setting. Perhaps in front of a microphone while reading one of my sentimental poems... but not amongst students who are definitely younger than me. Why do I cry? Because I'm in love and couldn't admit it to myself until it was too late. Well... perhaps not too late; there exists hope while time and space is shared between me and the other. However, the time I can give coincides with how much my heart can feel and fight and fly. Florence and the Machine put it beautifully, like I wrote in a previous post: "Sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release, wish for falling through the air to give me some relief because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace. it's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief." Falling into this place of love was easy, effortless, effervescent... but I've hit a ledge and am clinging to it's stability with bloody fingers and weakening resolve... I feel like I'm coming to a moment where I must decide whether to pull myself onto the surface and start climbing back to my 'senses' or to release and continue falling...

Blood is dripping down my arm, warm and sticky. I'm intrinsically enjoying the sensation of feeling because it's been lost to me in so many ways. To return, even like this with painful reverie and seemingly unjust circumstance, is a welcome relief. I'm not a monster, at least I can still feel this way for someone, something, and myself. I have not destroyed myself in previous times.

I can't resolve this, sitting in a computer library looking at a destroyed world while reflecting about how I feel and want to feel and desire. Only action in one way or another will bring some resolution to this state of limbo I'm curbing with introspective writing. Soon, however, I'll have to figure out what I'm doing with my body: giving it to the air and falling into the arms of this man or pulling myself away and distinguishing this possibility as merely minuscule emotional input. If only someone could help...

Monday, March 28, 2011

We Burn

The night skies quake in the rift of silence, balancing the twilight with succumbing darkness and gentle breezes laden with worry. It's not unlikely to encounter the scurrying fox under the lampposts by the course, her eyes luminous against the pale concrete, darting across the river of black whose way is cumbersome in the suburbs at night. Even the trees watch in quiet disregard, swaying against the sky with airy discontent. As if the abutments of the library gave an image of internal strength, the torment of a day's progression abated as I surrounded myself with the bindings of words and comfort of pages.

My candle is lit.

Scent fills my nostrils and stir memory into reality. The shadow of moments heaping arrests my heart as these thoughts swirl in the untangled waters pouring from the dam. Fretting images, anxious desires, and uninhibited fear roll down my throat as a flame ready to burst through my eyes. The bonsai on my desk is stoic in contemplation, its shadow dancing by the candlelight in a mystical interpretation of the shattered heart-felt scintilla residing within my chest a mere three feet away.

The leaves are calm --

Even with the fire so close to branch and the startling cold just beyond the glass. Without is bitter in the darkness where my heart feels betrayed in its honesty. Resounding words echo in my head, a drumming noise that starts every time I see the hazel green eyes piercing my consciousness, are remembered like thunder with beautiful melodies and painful uncertainties, even with vows tied quietly, hidden, unasserted, in the lines.

Tonight is for my candle.

Silent as the shattered sky, like my heart ripped into a forest of shadows and pillars guarding the beauty of the land. I thought one was walking with me amongst the maze of vines and streaks of light from the moon above; but the footsteps are quieter than I remember and I dare not look back to see what might have happened. Hopefully, he walks beside me, a wraith of beauty and wonder quietly taking vigil as he looks into the mysteries about.

Thursday, March 17, 2011


Lets find the
     anti -
instead of what
     we find
               or know

Find one
the other
     defined by each
               reasons explaining or anti-
For what we
     truthfully want.

     We write
in searching our anti-
     'til we find
                         or know


It's funny how a simple things cause such relief, shift moods drastically, and influence the perception of a digital conversation. Trust is encouraged and imbued in emoticon: a smile means the communicator is smiling, a frown means upset, a smile with a 'D' instead of a ')' is ecstatic smiling, etc.

Yesterday, I felt like I was in a well, drowning in the darkness of the tunneling heights with light a mere pinpoint so far above the murky, muddy cesspit my body struggled with. As I lay in bed waiting for the comforting void to swallow me, the last communication I received ended with a smile. Though I couldn't see the face of the person speaking to me, the smile reassured me.

But it's not a smile. It's punctuation coalesced into a figure representing a physical feature on someone's face. We allow this representation to permeate our world. That's a newer development in language. Before emoticons, I believe the typical distinguisher of facial expression was to simply 'emote' them (e.i. ::smile::). I wonder what our children will see as time continues, whether they will distinguish the difference between punctuation and an actual facial expression; or of the smile will be seen as a colon and a closing parenthesis.

What do you think? About Emoticons? The future of our language as a depiction of figures representing our emotions?

St. Patrick's Day

This is me, listening to music and wearing red on St. Patty's Day
It's a day of green, the day of drinking and pride in Irish heritage, the day of celebrating St. Patrick's work at ridding the Isle of snakes.

I'm not so proud of such occurrences. Unfortunately, the snake's of St. Patrick's day have been theorized to be the Pagans, Druids, and Wiccans of the day. I am Pagan, claiming Wicca though I simply call myself a witch. Since today is the day to wear green, I'm wearing as much red as I can! I have a bunch of (RED) products which I have chosen to wear: an INSPI(RED) shirt and a HAMME(RED) scarf. I chose to wear my black sweater to give me a little buffer against the onslaught of inquisitive glances and glares that have been flying my way.

I enjoy the abstract attention that's circulating my appearance today. I dress like this most of the time anyway, skipping to my own fashion style along the walkways of CU-Boulder. Today, I've noticed many green walking about (another Ironic representation, as the color of paganism in my mind is green: growth, abundance, nature, etc.) and a few abstaining members, though they're not necessarily wearing red like me. I'm a sore thumb in the societal expectation. It's hilarious.

Though I chose to purposefully disregard (or regard) the fashion trends of this day, St. Patrick's Day, I do enjoy participating in its celebrations. It's not truly about the banishment of pagans in contemporary times. St. Patty's day is about drinking! Being with friends. Pretending you're Irish for a day (which I wouldn't mind doing all the time, but I don't look Irish at all...). Should anyone ask why I'm wearing red on a day of green, I will more than happily explain the motivation for such stylistic choices today.

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY TO YOU! (as long as you aren't trying to banish me!)

Wednesday, March 16, 2011


Intoxicated intoxication: a river of unseen bleakness surrounding the enviable bliss of forgetfulness. Truly bliss? The ability to lose what hinders, what inhibits, what protects is: both blessing and curse, a detriment to growth, an aid to self growth, a challenge to overcome; but when it affects others and changes their perception of integral moments between... That's when it makes absolute chaos in the gut, a torrent of self-imposed agony trying to free itself in other modes of expression.

I've already shed the stinging rain and said my part. Waiting is the next. Anticipating is the whip stinging across my ear, whispering lies and unfurling schemes yet unknown. Where I was falling now seems uncertain. Whether I should fly away and apart or continue to the ground is beyond foresight. The quiet hurts... five minutes is an eternity.

An intoxicated night is a second. The darkness stretches infinitely; and behind it lies a story that wishes not be known. Enough is framed to poison. Hope persists that the picture doesn't scare away the muse.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Seasons of Love

Love. It's a label associating complex emotional, chemical, and physical conditions from on person to an other, whether it be an object, animal, or person. English has one [perhaps two] form[s] to express love. The primary form is to simply say "Love." It's easy, complete, justified, and encompasses every possible meaning of the word; and depending on the delivery's tone, the condition of "love" can change from "you're an amazing person for whom I care/admire/enjoy" to "you hold my heart and I can't see any other way of telling you how deeply I want you." The other form is "adore," which hold meanings from "you're cute" to "I deeply care about you." Both contain the understated complication of commitment once they've been uttered from person to person.

I have always seen love as a sinusoidal experience. Perhaps it's the types of relationships I've been in, the types of people I've been around, and the expectation I've shaped from desires. Up and down, shifted left and right, positively and negatively. Passing the level plane was always cautiously regarded as a lull in emotional stability and just as easily neglected as the peaks. So deeply in love was treacherously bipolar in my view, and I didn't shake the reality of it or examine the instability with an objective eye. Not until now, at least: alone with my thoughts, sipping a bottle of wine after naming my gray hairs after Calculus theorems, as single as I've ever been in my life (which is arguably not very single, though I see it as so. Regardless...). I despise that my love has been sinusoidal throughout its existence with every love in my life. I want the exponential experience! The falling so high with every smile, the limitless, unbounded, unexpected experience!

Just thinking about this desire, the possibility, the improbable, oddly scares me. Is this a season of love? The fear of finding that pure existence for another? A song by Florence & The Machine expresses this fear so perfectly in the song "Falling":
Sometimes I wish for falling,
Wish for the release,
WIsh for falling through the air,
To give me some relief,
Because falling's not the problem,
When I'm falling I'm in peace,
It's only when I hit the ground
That causes all the grief.
I enjoy falling in love, perhaps. Sometimes I feel it's too easy for me to fall for another, always looking for the beauty, undeniable abstraction of perfection, heart and soul, intelligence, and loveliness in others through all the muck that surrounds us. So falling is easy, and I long for that relief, release, reviving quality and enjoy the feeling. But once I near the ground where I can realize that love is where I've come to, I start recoiling slightly. I fear the possibility of falling endlessly and look for that harsh surface to walk upon. That's when I gain perspective and start judging.

This is when I need to stop. There is potential for love in my life. The subtle commitment exists already, but the word itself is timid behind clenched teeth. Doubt persists as well. The question which fuels such hesitation circles the facts of relationship's disbanding so recently. How could my heart, broken, bruised, battle-worn, be ready for anything other than loneliness right now? Maybe I'm not ready at all -- but then I'm fighting a force accelerating against my boundaries and pushing me toward the brink of falling.


The blasted word! The blasted Experience!!!

"Five hundred twenty-five thousand
six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
journeys to plan

Fine hundred twenty-five thousand
six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
of a woman or a man

In truth that she learned
or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
or the way that she died

It's time now to sing out
though the story never ends
let's celebrate
remember a year in the life of friends."
"Seasons of Love" from Rent

This is what started it all. My seasons of love have been stark and fluid, running through life as a trudging price of enjoyment, sadness, expression, and so much more. I don't regret. Love has been presented so many different ways in my life... and now I want to build my own experience without the regulations society (any society around me) has placed upon the value of love. I want to build love with another in the fashion that we wish love to take for ourselves. Falling is only the first step, I assume.

Must I fall then? Fall appropriately? At the right time? With the right wings and the proper wind? Or does it truly matter if I fall, when, where, how...? Any of it? Who is to say but myself?

Well, that answer is easily recognized. It's the staggering spikes on the ground, ready to impale me when my love has failed to attract and entice similar emotions from another. My fear of reducing love back to its singular word spiraling around many meanings catches my breath even as I decide to allow myself to fall. Fear. Fear of Falling. Fear of experiencing life as I want to experience it. Alas... life happens with or without me.

I'll just jump off the cliff and open wide to the experience. It's the only way to move forward with me.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Traveling Through The Spaces Of Love

Brightened Sheer, Surviving
     bitter winds whisking through thin skinned
     Cepheid timing distances measured
          in luminous spectrums spread
through opened mouths:
     pulsar voices timidly reverberating
     across light reviving speeds shifting
          relativity in warm nothingness.

Thursday, March 10, 2011


Dirt gives way to life
Timid breath whispers: Rapture.
Sound beckons love-smiles


Loneliness finds me
Deep in rent chasms of loss
Among lightless hope

To Whom It May Concern;

To Whom It May Concern;

Seasonal transitions are usually a challenge, especially from winter to spring. The intense desire for permanently beautiful days with the threat of spring showers drives me crazy when faced with reality that winter isn't quite over. I feel like many people feel the same way. We hear about colder temperatures, the possibility of snow, and the need for warm clothes and we suddenly feel disheartened and long for summer, if not spring. Day by day we wait by the window and hope to see the peaking bulbs, timidly arresting the ground as they sprout to see the lengthening days. We walk our dogs with jackets on, protecting us from bitter winds, and look at the half-green grass trying to bring us growth for lack of snow. We see the sun breaking night apart earlier with each stride and expect the crisp air to breathe warmth into our bones; but find the chill lingering like frigid tendrils slipping down our collars.

What little relief we have comes to us at home. My solution rests in jars: candles imitating the effervescent essence of spring fragrances brightening my closed windows. Inside I experience spring through a Yankee Candle jar sitting on my coffee table, flame dancing in the delicate flux of transitioning air releasing my Early Sunrise scent. Sometimes I'll add some Fresh Cut Roses to really simulate a fresh spring morning, and it makes my day feel bright from the moment I get up. This is what I recommend for every reader out there: Go pick up a candle and change the atmosphere in your house! Illuminate your inspiration! Find that breath of fresh air and release it. If candle's aren't your thing, find a reed diffuser or electric plug-in to change the air, invigorate your senses, and bring your world into the fields of fresh spring air! It really helps with those cabin fever symptoms.


J Hart F


How do I shelter my own heart? It's opened. It's shattered. It's free of boundaries while I rebuild the delicate forests of love, trust, acceptance, and balance which I so readily uprooted for what I believed was everlasting and unconditional. Little was my motion aware of the conditioning it harvested on the grounds fertile with growth, life... and love. And now I find the patterns of scars inlaid among the roots, the trees, the leaves falling gently from the ravaging torrent of earth shattering decisions.

Here a light has illuminated my work once more. Here my soul has reached an undeniable consequence of freedom; and in searching this trail my musings have offered another comfort and reality such that both sky and ground can uniformly heal without fear of conditionality. In doing so, the stars have fallen and gifted me with deeper, gentler, virile waters to endorse the spreading of beauty in the domain of my heart. Sun drenched warmth folded upon the darkness and revived such living jubilation among the trees like twilit demigods circling a glade filled with flitting fireflies and dancing flames. Unfortunately, the sun is in no control of the hands that tend this land.

I cannot hold the light; cannot declare or determine the stance it takes in my world. Clouds threaten and foresight preludes rain's drenching possibility. Time ticks by and warns of speeding the lanes across the heavens if chance permits. My possibilities of enchanting is to remain grounded and ensure the beauty of my own world. It shines as long as the earth remains beautiful, peaceful, enigmatic, and interesting. Here I plant myself. Here hopes flourish and sprout, grow and engage, manifest and entice.

But hopes are merely the surface of aspiration. I hope the mending covers my heart and spring gently into ever present love, everlasting happiness, togetherness evermore. But this sun, this orb of purity and life, has choices to make for itself, paths to discern, orbits to enter and proliferate... As I as a light must do for myself. But first I tend, I mend, I rend the soil of its scars and filter the views toward a future of belonging happiness and planted openness. Aide is appreciated, and the warmth of his smile helps in my healing.