"Nothing is built on stone"

It is a concept.

A perception of sorts, where we perceive this idea of a place where we stand upon a platform of stand where if we dwindle long enough, it might become a paved road beneath our feet.

Tromping through places where feet press into watered grounds,

you might hear your feet sluck as you try to trudge forward,

sinking further into sands that looked stable enough to hold us.

Here it is for certain that I must tell you that no platform is built upon brick, stone, or any other form of concrete material.

We must depress out growing sentiment that we can pave the path before us.

Build the bridge from stone to stone, and use the wood in order to traverse between it.

That is what they tell you in your youth, but that is the lie that is to be sold.

That is the lie in which you might become obligated to an expectation that would drive you to anxiety, desperate to rebuild any crumbling stone platform sitting on sinking sand.

Splitting on loose granules that give no rigidity to the place you aim to build your foundation.

For who are you but one in many, building your dreams and hopes upon a platform believed to be hardy.

Building up with your twig-like wood on a rickety scaffolding set to fall when your neighbor might plow through you.

Yes, toil.

Toil away.

You are one of many.

Another who "must build as if the sand were stone" and that anything born from that might become your home.

Twisting the fibers,

dangling down over a background of haze;

of hues of browns and beige.

She hangs,

head falling back,

one leg bent and toes pointed down as she twists right and

racks layers of cotton beneath her hand.

Twisting around, until it all comes undone.

Falling down, fabric floats like white blossom petals.

She hits the stage, coming to a halting stop against the wood grain covered floor.

The threads pulls taught,

dragging her up.

Ankles,

Hands.

All bound by tiny cotton weaves.

Three spun fibers,

make her dance though it cannot make her sing.

Watch her dance against the warming wood stage.

Hanging by the thread.

My marionette,

poor thing.

She's always been nearly dead.

I woke early, earlier than usual. I decided to stay that way. My morning ritual at the station was calling me just 4 blocks away .

The Station is my favorite coffee shop in New Orleans. I rushed there without any hesitation. I was startled from my automatic pilot by a man in the street screaming at a car ahead.

I hoped it was personal, It was not!

Though I refused eye contact,

I was next In line!

The screaming and yelling ranted towards me in a garbled banter but ended with a clear message!

“ Don’t trip over a gangsters gun”

Was that a message I needed to hear? Why? I vaguely heard about the mass shooting gun violence at the school before I went to sleep last night. The horrors of that and the 14 year old shooter were very real! Could this be homeless man’s point! Doubtful.

Was the mass shooter the new gangster?

Was it a song lyric floating in the air?

Was it a political metaphor?

Was there a gangster nearby?

All these things were possible And now those words won’t go away.

Is it a sign?

Perhaps I will redefine gangster by the end of the day.

Words of wisdom for the day to share

”Don’t trip on a gangsters gun!”

Bloody Mary

"If I dig too hard..."

I might drag up beads of blood,

that spill like rivers down my arm.

Cackle to my inner teenage self,

and twist a little in.

Curl over my arm, like a madman covets his spoils.

What could you call mad, if it's perfected to a feigned innocence that shines like pearlescent white plastic orbs on a table?

I think I could admire the blues and pink hues captured in the false pearls,

but I think that you'd like to think I was just some twisted bitch bent on a rage ready to fall off the bench groaning under my sliding feet.

Hooking my knife into their ears,

tearing their reputation to shreds and burning my own glass house down to the ground.

It's the glass fire we all seek to churn.

For what is madness when there isn't a loss of self preservation?

You're not insane until you're ready to burn it all,

to take everyone with you, but yes, "dig a little harder."

Cut me until I'm gasping for air.

Because I love the way your torture makes me hurt,

gives me internal scars that makes me a little more bent inside

like the crooked man over the crooked road, waiting for all the black to consume the world.

I swear to you, I'm not the monster you think I am.

The empty smile isn't one you'll find on my face.

It's only when the light fades from my eyes,

and we meet each other with that same cold ass stare.

After all, aren't we mirrors of one beast in the same?

I'm not insane.

I'm perfectly fine.

Let me fix my face.

Let me make it all right again.

I'm not insane.

I'm perfectly fine.

Let me fix my face.

Let me make it all right again.

Sometimes, I just...

For every bit of real emotions of my own that I write,

I have to balance it out.

Or else...

I'll feel like a monster.

So I just-

I write little things.

Silly things,

Tidbits of this or that.

Funny, cute, lyrical things that just feel like it's a reminder that I left the monster of the teenager back in those days. She's proud of me, of not having to protect me anymore.

So I think,

When I go back to her,

When I remember her and all the things she used to think and say...

"Counterbalance"

And I'm remembering where I am today,

That I'm not there, but rather here.

I don't live that life anymore.

I don't have to.

That's the beauty of it.

I don't have to.

The mist shrouded the mountain like a snake that is about to squeeze its prey

At this place, far away from human civilization, I found my nirvana—

fresh air, fresh view, and fresh climb

Trees stretched their fingers towards the azure sky while bees and flies

circled around their trunks, always searching for something,

maybe blossoms that never grew on the branches

I too, am searching for something...

Peace and serenity

Darting around in circles, the swallows performed gymnastics as they rushed upwards, plunged down in neat swoops, and then spiraled into the air

Grey-headed bullfinches sat unperturbedly on flowering bushes and fruit-laden trees

as rain lightly licked their feathers

A bird hopped on its feet and looked at me with curious, black eyes

I stood there, unmoving

A straw-thatched house perched on a grassy slope, its door ajar as if inviting me in From the west, a puff of wind lightly tingled the straw on the roof and dipped its fingers in the sluggish river below

Sheltered by lush plants and friendly animals, I even forgot that this was a tourist site—it was a comfortable home for me

However, my reverie was broken when my mother

and some crazy monkeys stepped in my way

“Smile!” my mother yelled to me as she snapped a picture

of me gaping at the mountain

“Oh mom, you broke the silence!” I complained

“We’re going down the mountain anyway,” she replied

As I descended, I took one last look at the startling Giotto-blue sky

and the swallows that dotted it

But before my we reached the bottom, several monkeys blocked the way

One monkey grabbed my leg and hugged it as if it were a precious piece of banana

Another monkey approached and reached for my floral scarf

I was aware that Mom was probably saving this memory inside her camera

As I detangled out of the monkeys’ reaches, I realized that

I was actually enjoying their presence—

that was until one jumped on my back and tried to rip my hair out

And I also realized that my water bottle in my backpack was gone

As I veered off into the craziness that represents my world,

I stole a moment to just breathe,

took in the magnificent view,

and found peace to take with me

But even with the flowers, trees, and other parts of nature

that I feverishly love so much,

from the safe haven of my backyard to the green spaces of the park,

I felt at peace on this mountain

I rested on the rocky slope overlooking the mountain,

able to gaze out much farther and stand much taller than I typically can

I enjoyed the rough climb upwards because at the apex

I could survey what looked like the whole world

On that mountain, I realized that what captured my heart about the climb is that once I reached my destination, I became part of Nature—

I was in the clouds,

the river flowing below,

the ghostly mist,

the twittering birds,

and the playful monkeys