Kiss the crazy outta me

Kiss the crazy outta me

Give me something to believe

I’m not playin’ games, I’m not gonna lie

I’m giving you the me that’s deep inside

Speak the words to make me come to life

it means nothing, it means nothing

You look at me like you can almost reach

it means nothing, it means nothing

everything hiding in the depths of me

I tell myself it means nothing

If I say it enough then it makes it true.

Or maybe it’s the opposite…

If I say it too much, it becomes a lie.

I’m tired of being down down down, but my there’s nothing you can do because my rescue was never on you.


Read Me

What can I say?

How do I explain?

Not every little thing is pointed your way.

I catch words as they spiral down like snowflakes falling from the clouds.

Baby won’t you smile? I’m not trying to run, I’m not going to leave.

I might be falling. I might be fallen. But I’m yours to keep.

Escaping Beauty

craft construct conform

do you string your words together or let them fly

and let them form:

unpredictable, wild and free, soaring high?

or is beauty in the selected rejection,

cultivated affected perfection?

is the beauty of the garden not in the flowers thereof?

but all we hear is the manicured battle cry of

I am an individual. I am unique.

Others employ a survival technique

bob and weave, bob and weave…


Is beauty seen from not only the paved path,

but also in the flowers that escape unscathed?



Unafraid of the wanting

Lost between

the mysteries

of yesterday and the promises of tomorrow.

Watching, knowing

where we are going, running

from the things that chase.

Peace flows through

the howling ache,

holds until the trembling weight

proves too much to take.

If no peace can be found, then

give me passion.

Passion to ward away the pain.

Passion to resist the lull of fear.

Passion to fight the pull of the ever-decaying decay.

Passion is more

than the one by your side,

it’s encompassing,

the whole of life,

leaves you unafraid of the wanting.



My attitude towards life, for most of my life, could be summed up in a few words: What’s the point?

We all have some points or goals in life: education, sports, spouse, job, kids. Maybe those held for a time, but what happens when you don’t meet your own expectations? You didn’t finish your degree. Your marriage is crumbling. You wonder if your parenting is doing any good.

Do you classify yourself as unworthy? Leading back to …


What’s the point?

Even when it seems like anyone else could do it better, you are the only one who can be you. Maybe those 525,600 minutes are heavy, heavier than our hearts can bear. That’s when our passionate side must speak louder than the voices of apathy and pragmatism.

You could die tomorrow.

The majority of people will not die tomorrow.

You are not the majority.

You were born with a unique personality.

You were uniquely shaped by your circumstances.


Even when we know the truth, it’s difficult to surrender to it. What does it mean to surrender. So often, we have the wrong impression of what surrender is. Surrender isn’t about giving up and relinquishing our self.

Surrender is pressing forward even when we don’t have the revelation.

Surrender is finding yourself, even when you feel like you’ve never really known who you are.

Surrender is fighting for and protecting what’s right.

Surrender is being brave enough to stand and enter the ring despite the fear.

You are not the majority so get up.


You don’t talk anymore, tell me what to do. What broke your heart? Will you let me hold you?

When I look in your eyes, all the weight of the world seems bearable. All the pain and suffering seems senseless but I could weather it with you.

I see hope in you, and I forget my time has passed. I see the universe in your eyes. I see there is so much more to lfe, but it will never be mine.

 Half-breathed prayers and whispered dreams, if I lost it all I’d still find you there.

The Breaking of Me

I’ve heard it said I should be glad of life.

Sometimes I can’t see the beauty, I can’t hear the music.

I’m listening, listening trying still to find out who I’m meant to be.

The music, it plays so faintly–I scarcely hear it now.

My body moves, the words from heart and mind through fingertips, but I can’t hear the music,

not when this world is blaring around me,

not with this chaos surrounding the hidden-me.

The weight of this life makes me cry and I can’t hold the pain inside without you holding me.

I’m desperate, I’m wild, I want to move freely but what can’t I learn is that I can’t be found in you, nor you in me–

surviving this will be the breaking of me.


Let the children dance.

Let the children sing.

Let the children dream.

Let them find beauty and be who they’re meant to be.

Don’t sentence them to silence and expect them to live free because to be whole they must one day be re-broken.


to dance and sing, to write, and to love, that would be a beautiful thing

Unbidden Fire

Who can say that it’s worse to never have loved at all?

Have you ever tried to douse a fire that trembles through your veins?

What of the love lost,

one that I want only to move closer to,

but one I must surrender to the cold torrent of time?

If I can’t be rescued from my mind,

with all the flaws inherent here,

when I am just who I am

how can I hope to save you?

I don’t know how strong I am,

I don’t know that I can save you,

but I will fight,

I’d give my life to face the demons that try to take you.

Let’s catch fire to the sky, strike the fear to chill their veins.

Beneath this cold ice, a fire hides inside.

What I Miss the Most

I miss being able to process. Having moments of silence.

I just need (many, many) moments to let life pass by without my drum beating

I don’t care that I play a different beat, but I don’t want anyone to see me drumming.

There’s something to be said about being hidden.

You see, when people think they see you, they offer up their comments about how you breathe, or how you sit, or how you process.

And when your mind is already overloaded — I pretend my cheeks aren’t flushing, that I don’t hear the stutter in my voice — then all the opinions are friendly grenades in the siege of senses.

These things ingrained. Oh, these things ingrained in my motions, in my habits, in my way of thinking don’t allow for pretense. This is who I am. It is who I was shaped to be.

Do soldiers forget their training? If your essence was stripped bare, if your first feeling was fear of bombardment, would you ever be uncircumspect?

You take your moments when you can get them.