The **** does it really?
The **** does it all mean?
To caren’t oh so freely,
To not aim to read in between.

The **** is this monstrosity?
The **** does this represent?
This self-aware precocity,
Diving and thriving in its own lament.

Possessions stemmed from possessiveness,
Losses that led to lenience,  
No ***** to give and not a **** to lose,
Too many have come and went.

The **** does it matter, truly?
The **** should it matter to me?
These thinking caps are on too tight,
I’ll embrace this coldness cruelly.

Not to say that I am so daft,
This emulation of me is unflattering,
I’ve come to love this newfound craft,
The ***** become irrelevant when they stop mattering.

here we are

looking at grief in the eyes
sitting side by side with the pain
without it we won’t be standing still,
firmly; and as resilience; as tough;
as brave as we are right now

somehow deep down, we knew
when the strom was going to hit us,
and perhaps we didn’t remember
how we managed it through;
how we managed to survive

at last,

we made it to the shore
though in crumble and collapse
the storm don’t last forever;
it's over in the end

It's ok to feel angry and to feel desperate about things.

You are burdened
By time,
Your presence is unknown.
But what matters,
My lover,
Is how you grow.

Don’t fret,
Or try to forget
Of a time felt alone.

Be still,
My lover,
For a heartache is known.

But time ,
By your side,
Will guide your way home.

It's ok to make mistakes, ask for help and to not know.

It's okay to feel lonely and abandoned sometimes.

The first bite of a Mallomar,
Crunching like a boot,
On a fresh sheet of snow.

The sip of Ginger Ale,
On crushed ice,
With the squeeze of a lemon wedge

The smell of crisp Autumn air,
In September,
Just before the leaves change.

A puff of rich tobacco,
Rolled in Maduro,
With a glass of Scotch.

A salty, fatty, crispy steak,
Dripping of meat juice,
As it swims in steak sauce.

The lips of a beautiful woman,
Inside and out,
Pressing up against mine.

My fingers flicking,
Through fresh paper,
Of a brand new hardcover.

The feeling you get,
When seeing prints developed,
From your own 35mm roll of film.

A big, salty, garlicky pickle,
After a deli sandwich,
On a Saturday afternoon.

The palette punch,
Of a salt and vinegar chip,
From a fresh bag.

Looking at all that gives me joy,
One can see the truth,
In the meaning of life.

Little things,
Oh so grand,
In a world of big woes.