fine print

what a lovely thing it is
to know
you gave your heart
but not
your soul

yet you still lost it all
because you forgot
that when you signed
your heart away
your soul was
the fine
print.

this is what you get
when you try
to share
your life
with another.

a collection of thoughts

am i too big for my own skin? or do i just make myself out as something i am not?
sometimes i see things from the outside and i can see me hiding in myself because i want to pretend i am something great.
it feels like lies, but never have i wanted more than lies to be truth. i want to believe that what you see is what i am.
but can that be?
i want to be what you see. but can that be?

fate (number two)

We gather here tonight
To bask in Fate’s delight.
A tale to tell our path,
A tale of Fate’s dear wrath.

Who is fate up there,
With her shining silver hair?
Arranging constellational myths,
From her fingertips.

What can we believe of Fate?
Basking immortal in the sky,
To her we wonder why–
The stars are wrinkles in time.

What drives the stars to shine,
And what can we ask of them,
In lines and curves and light?
Can they guide us through our life?

Can Fate tell us all of this?
After all, she is made of myths.
She burned the flying Icarus,
And cursed dear Prometheus.

Who are we without our fate?
Do we know our own way?
What are we without dreams?
What are we without prophecies?

“Where is Fate?” we ask.
“Can we coax her out?”
Instead she whispers down,
Fate is found inside ourselves.

fate

how do we realize our Fate? or how does it realize us?
we thought we could find it by being free, by being wild things no one could tame.
it’s running through the woods late at night and counting on Artemis to light our way.
it’s howling at the stars instead of the moon because we count on the stars to guide us.
it’s using the fire Prometheus stole for humanity to keep us warm.
it’s perching on the branches of trees and waiting for Apollo’s chariot to streak across the sky.
it’s for the people we were once, the people we are now, and the people we will become.
“what is Fate?” we ask. “is it an otherworldly being?” we wonder. “with hair made of constellational myths and eyes made of galaxies?”
no, Fate is none of that. it is not written in the stars, because we have seen those same stars for thousands of years.
and millions of lightyears away those stars are dead–or they are dying–leaving dust and smoke or nothing at all behind them.
Fate is found inside me, inside you, and inside everyone else, too.
Fate does not reside in the sky, it resides inside our hearts and our minds.
we may think all the decisions have been made for us, that we’re tumbling toward our destiny and we can’t decide where we get to end up.
let me tell you, Fate is not written in the stars. Fate is written inside ourselves, and it’s only up to us to realize it.
so what do you believe? does Fate realize us? or do we realize our Fate?

statues and stones

statue angels and stone cold kings.
mine their hearts and steal their rings.
turn them into crowns for nobles unbound,
sitting with Arthur at a table so round.

ancient martyrs and modern heroes.
tales of rebellion and battles they go.
fighting horned demons and winged serpents,
with blood on their hands they feel the repentance.

they drink their rum and consume the alcohol,
waiting and watching for the hammer to fall.
yet no news came of the hellish flame,
that was said to burn them all.

remembrance

my love, he enjoys the springtime.
the butterflies / they follow him
like dogs on a leash, cover him

they make him a crown from their
beating wings, like hearts upon
his head. he begs for deliverance.

only the butterflies hear his
whispering words to gods / he
hopes will hear / but he forgets

yet again / that he is a god himself
made of everything / they have ever
known. he is substance and lack of it.

i envy him with his hands of grace
his tongue / of lace instead of knives.
he asks for liberation but he liberates

my soul into worlds / unknown
filled with golden feathers and halos.
my blood runs thick / his runs thicker

with soft hair that / turns golden in
the sun, he shines as bright
as anything / i’ve ever known

brighter than the halos of the angels
filled with colors that could best
the boldest / painters, he is a painting

in motion / this i know
he is art come alive and dancing
through the clouds and heavens

to reside in the sun, where holiness
runs free like children in the street
and i hope he is never forgotten

like how he has forgotten all
that he was and should be, like
he has forgotten / someone like me.

prometheus journal

what are we without our dreams?
our imagination, inspiration, aspirations.
what happens to a dream forgotten?
when our thoughts are like dough,
and dreams are no more.

what drives the stars to shine?
what drives the gods to thrive?
what drives a human to be kind?
what would be of us if Prometheus
didn’t sacrifice his freedom for our knowledge?

dreams in us strive, thrive, make us kind.
we are humankind with the stars on our side.
we shine with the hearts of dreamers,
and with fire in our hands,
and the dreams in our heads,
we will make our own constellation.