“I can’t take it all in or else I’ll grow cold when the heat already escapes my fingers and toes.”

To be understood is to be on part of the path to inclusivity.

To be understood and accepted could change so many lives.

People struggle with words that spill and overwhelm you because they themselves are sinking.

I still have a scar from the time someone said, ‘Sometimes love isn’t enough.’

I don’t think anyone really gets my attachment to the little things. They call it insignificant and say that it is what it is. I think it all adds up to what we stand for. The little things add up to something meaningful and so does the complacency.

I bear the fruits of your memory in the expression of my art for that is what you gave to the world.

Body and mind aren’t separated. And so all these things I write, they are felt in the aches of my heart.

I grew up learning history about communities that would support their people (the idea that it takes a village), but all I see are so many people left on their own.

When the silence fades and now sounds begin to bloom, I will grow to feel calm again. Healthily this time.

My words decay. I grow as they fray, unbecoming in the passage of time.

I overwhelmingly write from sadness – in songs, in prose, in verse.

I search for comedy scripts / I watch happy shows / In hopes that laughter will be the remedy I end my day with.

I hide myself in the galaxies of my creations – unsure of who I am beyond that.

I wonder why I’m so empathetic, why people perceive me to be so kind. I don’t want my heart to burn when there’s no one burning mine.

We walk in circles, never knowing when to end the cycle our hearts put us in.

Somewhere the silence resonates, the clutter clears, and you’re set to start again.

Honesty is praised and left in the cold.

Little flashes of sun on the surface of a cold, dark sea.

How can this warm heart treat me so cold?

She is cold like the autumn breeze that sweeps the leaves away.

The weather never stays too cold when the mother stays close

The world we live in is a forest of frost, with crystal ice webs of lies and deception.

If the days knew where you went it would not have become winter so soon, Nor the cold that freezes my hands would have tasted so much of longing for you.

December sinks in like a cold shouldered old friend. I try to stretch, reach my toes, but my own bones feel covered in snow.