The breeze of brilliance



The sounds of the dust 

Of the gasses 

Of the moon

Circulating for having touched everything 

And nothing
There is no such thing as the self

As no self may advise 
You feel it pointing your translucent body 

This way and that


It having known where you have been and by 

Pattern recognition

Where you might be
It’s the compass that points true north 

Not the plastic kind where you hang around your neck 

Where it can be easily tricked by any magnetic or electromagnetic source
Gravity perhaps

God perhaps

The soul perhaps

Life force perhaps

Insanity perhaps

Awareness perhaps

Sensitivity perhaps

Fear perhaps 

Intuition perhaps

Magic perhaps
It’s so Fluid it belongs to everything 
It’s so indecisive it wants everything 
You look over your shoulder

Twitching in your seat 

You feel eyes on your head, clinging to objects you might lose

You see faces who don’t know you, their eyebrows creased 

You feel your heart beating and declare it you
Water itches 

Air itches 

Hair itches 


Of a nature 

That by your thoughts 

You are unsure

Because by your nature

Your regular rhythms 

Are not good enough 

For theirs 

And you

Are not normal 

By itself 

Your lies are not


I miss the feeling 





Children’s visions 

Where rubber duckie’s and chocolate can be friends are

All What one needs 

To be


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Seeing truth 

I can’t see in the dark

The dark is gloomy
I can see though

When the sky

When our star

Shines brightly 

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You want me to speak?

I stare at you aghast

You want me to say

Without the pressures of your tangling tongues

Too strong and rash to allow my way through this mass

So I can say, just what I may?

Well, I will tell you,

If you let me

So open your ears

Open your ears wide

Let me shout out, but please don’t hide

Dear Parent, Lover, Family friend

And classmate, teacher, roommate and best friend

What I wanted to say  

Is that I am here, right now

I am listening

I am watching

I am relating

I am diffraction grating

I live in my mind

My eyes are the windows

My hands are my voice

This is how I maneuver it’s my choice.

But sometimes I want to say,



I may forget my tongue, I admit that I do

But when I want to tell you something

I don’t want you to put me in the loo

Nor do I want to drown in the thrumming sea of pure sound

Just listen to you mumble

Just listen to that trash they let you say

At your may

Maybe it’s good

Maybe it lacks

But for heaven’s sake just give me a chance!

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What it means to be a writer 

There’s a gaze,

A gaze that only writers and true thinkers posses. 

This flickering something reflected in the eye, 

Something from another world, 

A thing so mysterious and perhaps a bit farfetched,

But this thing sprouts a whole new branch of things. 

A branch of ideas and possibilities, 

Some people call us writer’s crazy,

“Beings of some unknown planet.”

With this branch of things we can use it to carve out creative stories. Paint or draw amazingly beautiful masterpieces. 

But even those creative masterpieces need work, to transform from just a stick of thought to something physically there. 


Writers write; it’s what we do. 

Hacking away like miners hacking away at a piece earth with hopeful eagerness to find something to make up for all of his tiresome efforts. 

The diamond. 

That clear piece of mineral gets your mind wandering at its reflective glare.

Visible but not visible.

 Somehow, see through. Just like the way a writer looks at you, but beyond you, at something unseen. 


Writing something invisible, visible

Giving it splashes of color

Feels and textures


We pick a person

We dress it pretty.

And give them a show.


We are not the ordinary kidnapper

We pick,

Not steal


Tying personalities in nice pretty package

We give them a story

And wish them the best in their adventure 

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Notebook absorbing

Pen exploring

writing, scribbling across the way

bridging two worlds together


Pen meets paper

crossing the barriers of time

aging older than its days of nativity

from white to yellow

from stiff to brittle


but always remembering the first touch

at the moment when first pushing off

 with the first rush of emotion

 adherring mind to matter

increasing velocity

mirroring trosity

saving the world.

then, it ends with a flourish and a dot yet

only concluding without a stop

Living its immortal days where it can not be forgotten


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What is a flaw but what someone sees as different? a plight of wrongness that your forever born with? something that sticks right up there with your name and identity so close and tightly that it may steal any sanity the second skin; the mask stuck so fast to the point you can no longer see past its existance?
  But if it exists, then it is real; the ultimate truth will it reveal. 
    Nevertheless they see it as a mistake, a human disfunction of the mechanics of construction. You double take. You want to belong, but that little blemish is just so wrong!

    Who am I, to remark on the appearance of my face and judge the mark as if it were my own choice? It is then, that I know, that this blemish is mine alone. That this piece plus this piece and a little more equates to the greater force with powers of magic to create.

   No one sees who I am beneath all of this. I am the girl who remembers. Who never render’s falsely in a mystery for I am the girl who notices all the little details and solves the puzzles.

   I am the girl who knows passion and power. and how to mind bend her dreams into reality. 

   The issue here, is that I am never consistent. Everything I say absolutely are really partial lies. 

    It is true that I remember but I so do I forget. 

I stumble on numbers and get F’s in math.

    I am not fluid, but I am proud, of that at least. If that makes me different, I don’t care. I am willing to change my brain to understand everything I come in contact with.

    What is a flaw when seen over time? 

    Will its space that it occupies be accepted from the jointed world of error? or will it stick out as a life long devastation? 

something worse than common frustration, a feeling you can’t just pick off. 

   Time does not exist though. It’s an ever changing flow, a pattern, a beat, a rhythm persistent in only that one place. But I am real, this smudge is real. I can tell, because I feel. That was when I knew the truth. I am a work of art, a walking talking masterpiece. Proof of mother nature’s realness for I am the human experience. I have color, I have sounds, I can make things move from their grounds. I am aware.

   Does that make it alright? 

    That for some reason I came out wrong? No. Of course not. But what is wrong? What is right? What is bad? What is good? That’s a binary categorization which constricts the nations into a tiny little box. 

   I am but true diversity in action. A change, a choice, another chance to experience it all. and a gifted moment to try to live it better. I am not wrong. I just am. So I call myself flawless. 

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How America’s justice system failed our children

In 1989, children younger than 16 could be sentenced to die in the United States. Lawyer Bryan Stevenson (TED Talk: We need to talk about an injustice) represented some of these juveniles in Alabama, the state with the most children sentenced to death per capita. Read his chilling account of meeting Charlie, a 14-year-old tried as an adult for capital murder, in an excerpt from his new book: Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption.

“He’s just a little boy.”

It was late, and I had picked up the phone after hours because no one else was in the building; it was becoming a bad habit. The older woman on the other end of the line was pleading with me after offering a heartfelt description of her grandson, who had just been jailed for murder.

Charlie was fourteen years old. He weighed less than 100 pounds and was…

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