Things are changing. Do you feel it, do you sense the heavy stumbling, and slowing of the hearts while the rage builds up? The pace is quickening. There's a nation filled with lost souls and so many challenges. Self-importance, entitlement, anger and emptiness. It is all there. Still beats the good...it just needs to be surrounded and joined...it needs to be prayed over and cheered on. We used to could have disagreements and not have it end in violence or insults.

Was there ever a place in time where people were good to each other? I realize there actually were no "good old days" because during every era or period someone was treated unfairly beyond anything our minds can wrap around. Ignorance and hatred has always been present, but good showed up bigger and better. Prosperity has never truly been shared by all and enough has never meant plenty to go around except to "the some" - ask someone who is wondering with a stomach numb from rumbling how their day is going.

I go to work daily and come home drained. I have some kids who cannot read but are getting passed on because they cannot be failed. Yes, I said we are not allowed to fail them, the system says so... So, I watch as they are shuffled through a system that is supposed to strengthen them; but will eventually break them and us all. This system that won't let us fail them is failing them in epic proportions and every educator who wanted to make a positive difference in a child's life.

There are so many places we need to set to restart. Where we need to come together as if our lives depend on it - because frankly, it does. I don't like to speak of doom or look at the cup as half empty, it really isn't my nature. But...it's midnight in our deepest of winters, we are whistlin' past the graveyard and the bucket we are carrying has got a hole in it and we couldn't buy a vowel - not even if we wanted to.

Our future depends upon how we treat others in the now. Our future depends on decisions being made by people that have not got a clue on what they are speaking of because frankly they can't see from their view. Whether it's the "I don't give a damn glass - it is all about me" from which they hide behind or the whatever in their "Nor do I care" dismissive attitude. Accountability needs to be reinstated. Integrity needs to be dusted off. Kindness, humility, y'all come on out too. I know y'all are there!

We are in a battle zone...where we are not safe in our streets...the ones that lead right to our front door. We need to pump the brakes when we cannot be civil to each other in traffic. We have fallen to the point of where common sense and common courtesies are so far back in our rearview mirrors that some of us cannot be decent. Well, let me restate that...where some of us refuse the choice to be decent. Violence is not supposed to be a way of life...one cannot breathe, nor let alone see with their head buried in the sand or covered in slung mud.

Nobody owes us anything...our lives are what we make them and as I age, I cannot cry over the wasted time I spent - because when I give pause to think where all those years went and just how dang fast they sailed - there isn't anything that I can do to recapture that time...but I can do different with what precious moments that I do have left. I am heartbroken but praying for a miracle...because they can and do happen.

I am a true-blue die-hard Houston Texans fan, and 22 had us at the bottom of the barrel. This year the so called "experts"- you know the ones who can't do what they are talking about said that with a Rookie Coach, QB and players that this team was no threat. Something amazing happened...they stumbled, but they didn't fall... they got their footing and then the mindset of "why not us"? It became their motto. Glorious. "Why not us?"

In this moment in our lives, why can't we be the people who change the course of the path we are on? Why not us?

In the cluttered corners of my mind,

Where shadows dance, and thoughts unwind,

A symphony of whispers, dark and deep,

Intrusive thoughts, their secrets keep.

Unwelcome guests, they linger near,

The tempest of anxiety, sparking fear.

Like ghosts, they haunt, with mangled glee,

Intruding on my only sanctuary.

A canvas painted with the hues of doubt,

Intrusive thoughts, they twist and shout.

A storm within, a relentless tide,

They whisper, taunt, and try to hide.

I wrestle with these shadows cast,

In the theater of my mind, they're vast.

Unwelcome guests, they dance and play,

Distorting truths in the light of day.

But I'll rise above this tempest's roar,

Find the strength to close the door.

For in the heart of the darkest night,

I'll reclaim my thoughts, bring back the light.

Intrusive whispers, I'll defy,

With resilience and a steadfast eye.

A poem penned to set me free,

From the chains of intrusive thoughts, let me be.

Tonight

Driving home I felt nauseous.

I'm not sure if it was due to the lack of sleep. Lack of Sunshine. Anxiety.

The fact that immediately after I told you "You look pretty tonight" I felt ashamed. Embarrassed. Like I was objectifying you.

Maybe it was the cigarette I smoked. Desperate for dopamine. It felt good, that first drag. Then it felt like nothing.

"Your hair...you just look really pretty tonight."

Doubling down. I've already said too much. Can't help myself, can't stop. What am I looking for here? Them to tell me, "Why thank you! You just made my day!"

No. Not everyone is fishing for unwanted compliments. Especially not after 19 hours of enduring another day.

My mind feels heavy. My body feels worn. Clutching the steering wheel, driving home in silence, I feel alone.

I tried calling two friends who live on the West Coast, hoping to vent about my day. My week, though it's only Tuesday, feels like it's dragging. Everything feels hard.

I wanted to tell them what I felt when I told you you were pretty, the absolute indifference in your voice.

"Maybe it's because I shaved and I look five years younger."

But instead I'm met with silence. And I'm still nauseous.

The cigarette, it's making you feel sick. Why did you think this would bring you relief? Why do you reach for the things that can kill you?

You'd think by now I'd be comfortable being uncomfortable. But it's already been a long winter. And my routine has been shattered. And I made the mistake of taking on more and more to keep myself busy. I forget to finish the things I've started. I get frustrated when things get hard. I fail to practice, practice getting better.

It takes practice. All I need is practice.

I talked to myself, driving home tonight, as my stomach turned and my chest grew tight.

You can do this, you can do this. It's gotta be the cigarette.

I deserve love that's worth fighting for.

Love that doesn’t make me question myself.

Love that doesn't make me question us.

I deserve love that stops the world from spinning.

Love that sets my wings on fire.

I deserve love that makes me stronger.

Love that kisses in bad weather.

Love that lasts forever.

Today I find love wherever I go.

Today is just the beginning.

Today my soulmate sets my wings on fire.

Today the world stops spinning.

I'd give you a piece of my mind

if I knew which one was not indispensably

holding together the genga puzzle of my precarious being

thoughts the post-it notes of our metamorphosizing essence

ethereal as that one checkered argyle sock you catch glimpses of

sitting in life's laundromat watching yourself tumble fall disappear

thoughts never held unless written down

I'd loan you the voice in my head dictating

for twelve milliseconds if you could stand it

thoughts not so much the words

but the space between them

where you fill in the blanks

Hold that though!

But how?

Thoughts are so fleeting.

They wander as I wonder,

Disconnectedly,

Without rhyme or reason that I can see.

They travel randomly as they please,

Coming and going

Without consulting me,

As if I don’t exist.

It’s freaky!

I’m being used by someone I can’t see.

Maybe the devil’s playing games with me,

Having fun at my expense,

Taking advantage of my pliable innocence.

Why are thoughts so hard to control?

They’re right here, in my head,

In my most prized real estate,

Doing as they please, as if I’m dead!

a daughter, confused and abandoned

i remember the first time that i asked my mom

why i didn’t have a dad like the other little girls around

me did, it was the first time she didn’t have an answer

for the hundreds of questions a five year old is

curious to know, it was the first time i saw anger burn

in her eyes. she once warned me about my first heartbreak

that it would come in my teenage years and that it

would hurt more than anything i have ever experienced.

i listened quietly, i had no strength to tell her that i had already

experienced my first heartbreak and that no matter how

much advice she could muster up, i would never understand

why the one man who was supposed to love and protect me

left without a care. it was then that i had the thought that

would haunt me for years to come, if my dad didn’t love me

enough to stay, who ever would? and then another, was there

something wrong with me? and another, what could i have done

to make him stay? i would later find out that i would ask these

same questions about the boys i would bring to bed.

a mother, angry and giving

she tried her best to give me double the love, to make up

for the other half that would not be given to me by him

and though i could never admit it to her, it was never enough

she knows this though, even if she doesn’t hear it from me

she has felt it on her own, abandoned like me. she hates him for making

me like her and she’s angry at herself because she feels that she is to blame

my mother has given, and loved, and kissed, and cared.

she is everything in the world to me

a brother, protective and loving

the one who will walk me down the aisle when my wedding comes

he will shed the tears that should have been my fathers when

he gives me away, he’ll make a speech about how it was

him who has protected me all of these years and now will give that

responsibility to someone else. i’ll cry along when he tells our friends

and family how much he loves and adores me, and we’ll laugh

when he mentions our favorite childhood memories

the one who gave me more protection, love, and attendance

than my father ever could

a father, careless and unpresent

i refuse to hold you close to me,

afraid of commitment and intimacy.

the feelings that dwell in my heart beguile

and i know deciphering them will take a while.

it's not fair to make you wait

while i chase my thoughts as they dissipate.

i'll keep my thoughts held at a distance

until i solve the problem of our coexistence.

the way forward is far from clear,

but i know someday i'll take you away from here

and my distant thoughts will instead be by my side;

by my feelings i'll be no longer mystified.

"Why'd you do it?"

The question seems innocent enough, but it's anything but. It's as loaded as a special on Saturday night, and it's aimed at the man across the scarred pressboard desk.

The questioned leans back and smirks. He toys with the Styrofoam cup of shitty coffee. The creamer is powdered and the sugar is the junk that comes in pink packets. He can practically feel the cancer cells multiplying when he sips.

The questioner sits on his side of the desk. He leans forward, hands clasped and elbows on knees. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up, and a pack of Winstons sits in his chest pocket. He stares at the smirking man drinking lukewarm coffee.

The two of them settle into a silence, and it looms. Seconds bloom into minutes, and the smirk sticks, even after the cup is empty.

"Am I under arrest?" Broken, the quiet shatters with a question in answer to a question.

"What do you think?" Parry and riposte.

"I think I like to hold my thoughts close."

"I thought the saying was about enemies."

"You're not so far away, are you?"

"And here I thought we were getting to be friends."

"Friends don't lock friends in interrogation rooms."

"The door isn't locked."

"So I'm free to go?"

"Do you want to leave?"

The smirk fades as the man's chair comes to rest on all four legs. "Why don't you show me to the exit, detective?"

"Like you showed her your knife?"

The smirk returns disguised as a smile, but it doesn't reach up and grab the eyes.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, officer."

Gesturing for the suspect to come closer, the investigator leans in to whisper in the man's ear. No microphones can hear, and the camera only sees him mumbling something.

"You can admit what you did, or you can leave. The difference is life in prison or a death sentence." He then puts a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder, and squeezes briefly. The power in that grip shocks the suspect, and when he later looks, he sees bruises in the mirror. Leaning back, louder for the record, the detective continues. "I know you killed her. I can smell it."

The suspect laughs it off, but he's rattled. "Yeah? Well, I'm glad I use Dial. I wish everybody did."

"She used Ivory, and I can smell that on you, too."

The smirk and the smile fade into the rearview as the suspect stands. "I would like to leave now."

"Confession is good for the soul. You sure you don't want to get right with God?"

"We're done here, detective."

The old cop looks up at the man impatiently standing on the other side of the desk. "You sure you want to be?" The man remembers the pain of the investigator's grip, and he winces.

"I have nothing else to say."

"Okay, sure. Catchya later."

The camera doesn't watch the detective's grin, nor does it notice his eyes shift from green to gold and back again.

Parts and pieces of the suspect end up washed to sea, but no one ever reports him missing, since he murdered the only person who would have cared.

Within labrynthine hallways buried deep in my mind, my thoughts weave an tapestry. Some are cradled close, cherished pieces that shape the edges of my inner world. They echo in the hush of night. They tell me about the people I once knew, and the people who still do.

There are thoughts that linger at a distance, like wisps on the periphery of my consciousness. Delicate and fleeting, they avoid me, their presence felt in only in silence. These thoughts could kill.

Then, there are thoughts withheld, unsaid words that die within, yearning for release. They fly in the spaces between my breaths, their wings brushing against my lips. These unspoken truths are what could've been, what should've been.

In this delicate dance of thoughts, a balance between concealment and what I gave. Like worn pages of a cherished book, some thoughts are ones I love, while others remain whispers waiting to be yelled. Maybe one day, I'll yell as loud as I can, into the mountains. I want to be loved. I want them to cherish me, hold me as tight as they can, and never let me go. But these wishes float away, every night and every day.

Maybe one day.