Happiness is a warmth. It has varying intensities, but it is some type of warming sensation.

It's the color teal, a mix between blue and green, producing a calm yet bright color.

It tastes like chocolate, milk chocolate—dark chocolate is too bitter, milk chocolate is sweet and smooth when it swirls in your mouth or goes down your throat.

It feels like that one type of hug when the person hugging you just keeps holding you tighter and doesn't let go and you don't want to let go and you just feel safe and at peace for the first time in a while.

It's hearing a person's laugh, and you start laughing because they are laughing, and so you're both laughing and you won't stop laughing for some time.

It's just the little things that make you smile and get you through the day.

there's a painting

by Vincent van Gogh

of a bar all in reds and yellows

a master work

before 90's hip hop could be blasted

into the eardrums of clientele

they say he painted his best work

in a psychiatric hospital

in two years

where he was self-admitted

just like in a dive bar

it's important to know

when you've had enough

and you need to decompress

inside what will be

infamous

I am an enigma, scarcely do I know how to express my intricacies & complexities.

Everyone else sees a wall around me, so high, that they cannot scale.

How do I let people know that although I want to be seen, I cannot afford to be seen always.

I like a lot of space. I enjoy drinking in the peace and serenity that nature seems to produce without fail.

Sometimes I feel like water, swaying all over. Other days, I feel like clay, sticky and crude.

Some days I beckon to my inner self to stand up for myself, seeing as I play pretend doormat.

On days like this, I reckon with the me that wants to lay still and let the world go by.

Some call me depressed, others say I speak with wisdom that is from another age.

I have come to accept that this enigma is me, and I am an enigma.

I wonder then

Many have as well

What our purpose

In this world

May be

And yet

These wonders,

I wonder

Do they occur

To the common salamander

As she rests

Betwixt the underside

Of a rotting log

And the mossy ground?

No,

I don’t think they do.

So then,

Just as she - the tiny and color splotched salamander, does

Prancing her joyful dance on the forest floor after each fresh rain

Digging her soft fingers into the moistened ground for grubs

Migrating from the water and wiggling to the forest and then back again

All the while these wonders occur outside her musings

Just as she,

So too will I

echos off in the distance

the song of who I coulda been

coulda done

blood soaking with sin

parasites

I close my eyes

and the demon disappears

the wall is an eggshell offwhite

I have three lamps on at night

my notebook says Brave

my mom was shouting be brave

dad says to behave

Sometimes I cant tune things out

the ringing stops

autumn rain like a Goddess crying

Angel tears on a broken dawn

morning, mourning, boring broken.

the way to a mountain full of words unspoken

sometimes I was tortured by an imagined future

I realize now that I am crying

Autumn tears on a broken morning

rushing to the peak of elevation

all that ignored chaos of creation

Retracing the future to save our American life

Rushing to the golden clouds

thunder like the whip, like the knife

Finding nothing beautiful but the sound

of what they say beneath the ground.

Sapphire waves calmly soak the golden sand,

The rippling moonbeams make her demeanor look ethereal and grand.

Drenched in forever beauty,

Crystals of sand ,shimmering like jewellery.

Multicoloured coral floors lie around,

Beneath the diver’s bubbly mouth.

A saline smell floats around the tranquil bay,

Where the sea meets the moon-blanched earthly clay.

Naturally formed pacific pearls,

Are carried away with peaceful whirls.

Below the indigo aqua,

Are hidden civilizations, deprived of their rare extravaganza.

Mother Ocean- a valuable treasure,

Home to thousands of oceanic creatures.

It’s morning on the sector base. Everything is silent, save for the murmur of the helium compressor that comes from the aft quadrant of the craft. It needs to run all the time or things go terribly wrong, according to the engineers who know far more about the subject than me. They are undoubtedly asleep in their quarters since they trust that the truce will hold, but I do not. The skies are clear and the fourth moon is cresting the horizon, a perfect day for flying into battle regardless of the temporary pause of the interstellar conflict at hand. But suddenly a silvery web catches my eye and then I see it: a Transmordian phase shift spider has setup shop between the radar antenna and the laser canon pod. Already I can see that some petal bugs are stuck in the web and, as if on cue, the spider works it’s magic and becomes visible, emits an orange neon glow, then goes invisible again. And then there are two more I didn't notice at first, both fade into view, flash neon orange, then disappear. I learned as a child that phase shift spiders spin webs of titanium silk, a material prized for its beauty and durability; used to make everything from body armor to the most splendid evening gowns. And somehow these spiders evolved to survive and even thrive in the cold radiation of outer space. Life will find a way.

It isn't often we step outside and truly appreciate the beauty of the world. We often don't even feel a cool breeze and accept it as almost a blessing, opting instead for a coat or shelter. We protect ourselves from the outside, and watch from afar.

But from where I sit in a building, perfectly angled at the window, nature feels as if it is around me. Mist rolling in from unseen hills, just barely reaching out to touch the ground and just cold enough to snap me back to my senses. Trees, tall enough to look up to, but not enough to be intimidating, and yet, they still make one feel small on the second story of a building. Greens litter the branches, and at the start of autumn, the ground as well. One tree in particular is my favorite. Reds are dotted on the branches, free of leaves, for they have all fallen. But I am grateful for the visibility those branches provide. Small animals hard at work, working as I am, for survival. How the birds hover around branches, almost testing if the pencil thin branch would support them. I still sometimes see more previously unknown leaves leap from that tree. It truly is a favorite of mine. Early morning air strikes as I take my leave out of the building but to the next one. But the birds and animals don't mind. To be honest they don't even care. But in a strange similar way, they move from tree to tree, to look through the next window.

my dearest love, i will perform for you

everything about you is pure magic

pure music

i am in love with the way your legs move

and i am in love with your teeth

your heart is beautiful and, my god, your smile makes me weak

i am in love with you and everything you are

if you had my baby, i would worship the altar that is your hips

i will sew you back together and i will kiss your wounds

i am in love with you

i have said it many times but i will say it again

i am in love with you

you fell in love with me when i first picked up my violin

you came apart in front of me when i drew that bow across the strings

the music was made by me but it was made for you

so now, your body laid across my bed, i will create music for you

i said i love your legs, and your heart

so i will cut the tendons and muscles out of each and create a violin

your teeth will hold the string in place

and your hip bones will be my bow

that way when our child asks where mommy is

i will say, right here!

and play your favorite song, so you too can make the music