Rain is a funny thing,
but so is perspective.

I used to think of the rain,
with its heavy gray clouds swelling up with water,
just as my hopeless eyes do with tears.
If mayday parade had been an emotion,
I thought it was the rain.
Now Lord I know this to be true:
The rain is cool and refreshing,
hard downpour so calming but amazing.
Each rain drop brings life and new growth.

Rain is a funny thing,
but so is perspective.
God you change mine.

One second frozen in time.
Your life stopped on a dime.
If it was­ captured,
In a quick snapshot,
Would this be a photo you orded d­oubles of? 

Is it you staring at your bright screen?
Or with bri­ght smile one your face?
If every moment is significant,
It appau­ling home much of it we waste!

Are you passing the time?
Of fulf­illing your purpose?
Do you know it yet?

When the trumpet sounds,
On that mysterious day,
Will you ­be glad to be taken away?

Will you feel like you've done your jo­b?
Or maybe that your time was robbed?

Will you regret each ­lazy hour spent?
Or be ready to finally ascend?

My heart is the robin's egg that fell from it's nest.
Delicate, cracked,
the prettiest shade of blue
Not pulled away by the gasp of the wind,
Not scooted out by an unforgiving orange feline

My heart tried to fly before it's robin had hatched.
Even dreams(ers) have their limitations

Emerging from the blue shell the creature is wounded
very much alive,
very much curious,
newly cautious.
Wings unfolded but yet to soar.

Perhaps one day the wind will guide.

Perhaps one day the dreams will be suited

Perhaps one day I'll fly

*but first I will heal

Not all secrets are locked up in boxes
Not all truths are so hard to find

Some loiter at the bottom of napsacks
Others in the pockets of someone else's jacket
Some are laced up in a stranger's shoes
or waiting by the creekside...

We are sleuths,
The Great Adventurers!
and hound dogs
searching and searching

I'm telling you,
All we have to do is get out there...

This morning, it rains
immitating last night's emotional forcast

    how pathetic

This morning, the ground is wet
yet I can't shake this dry feeling I woke up to

isn't rain supposed to nourish life?

This morning my breakfast is a sugary Kelloggs cereal
but my mouth still tastes bitter from yesterday's words

This morning, I watch children's cartoons instead of the news
Because I'm done with grown ups, with their tragedy and bad weather

Reality destroys the good in the good morning show

This morning, I don't want to go out
Despite that, I sit on this almost empty bus that brings me out into the world

This morning, I wish that my umbrella sheilded me from the negative thoughts that rain down on my head,

and soak my scalp

I don't like isolation but I can't risk exposure
because when the photo is overexposed,
you lose the darkness as well as the photograph.
Which I don't think is a very fair trade...

But this morning, I come to realize peace in the rain,
a cleansing, calm, new beginning
I learn to listen to the pitter patter, which echos my heart beat
And though nothing feels fair, and I feel like I'm drowning
I know the rain will never consume me
So I'll dance in the showers,
and when the waters flood up all around me I will swim
  like I'm back in my favourite version of summer

Rain, rain, don't go away
*somebody needed you

"Dear God,
I want to be a poet."

I want to speak in silver metaphors that slither into ear canals and seep into cortexes.
Words that turn eyes to a new perspective,
that crack your skull wide open with honest art.
Reality and creativity,
Taped together and painted over in the truest colours of life.

I want to speak in that powerful, yet still human, voice.
To quake the ground beneath you until you are shaken up
and you shed that exoskeleton of hurt,
or fear,
or doubt,
or ignorance.
I want all of that lifeless skin to loosen its grip around you,
and not bind you so tightly to complacency.

I want to establish communities of words,
that take you in as their own.
Delivered so rhythmically that your own pulse will begin to race inside of you,
parallel to the lines I've written.

I want to make you run with these words,
feel the winds against you,
push past the resistance and onto freedom,
as every weight lifts off of you.
So I can show you that your shoulders were not made to carry boulders,
your eyes were not meant for harsh tears,
and that everyone needs a break sometimes....

I want to be a poet because if I know the truth, I want to share it.
Wear proclamations on the palms of my hands,
hope radiating from my worn skin.

I want to write poems because I know that we're all human,
so why hide it?
Why hide our emotions when we can let them take flight?
If we've gotten through the tangled mess, why can't we reach back and help the next hero climb though?

I want to show love.
I want to understand,
I want to now who I am.

"Dear God,
Thank you for giving me a notebook as a best friend,
and giving me a copy of yours.
I know that no matter how far off I stray with my imagination,
I will always know what is truth."

I wanted to be a poet,
but now,

*I just want to be me

Sitting in this warm house
I look out the window that keeps me safe inside
I look through to a snowy paradise

Man, it looks beautiful...
from in here at least
but the grass chokes beneath the suffocating snow
and the glittery ice on dead trees weighs the branches down.

From inside this season is a pleasant scene,
In reality, tragically beautiful.
Nature's remnants shrouded by frozen precipitations.
     How can each single unique snowflake band together to push cars off of roads?
     And seal doors shut?

Winter you are real,
     A crazy gorgeous, yearly event
with the power to make us slow down,
                                                   or stay in.

Winter you are a force to be observed and not challenged.
Sometimes you freeze us,
but you always look spectacular.