“They tell me summer is coming, and soon we’ll be dancing on the shore. Waiting for the moonlight to light me up amongst the starlight.”

Here you are, another heartache to guard under my wings as I wait wondering when it’ll be time for me to fly.

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.

We all get the same amount of ice. The rich get it in the summer. The poor get it in the winter.

I rarely think of poetry as something I make happen; it is more accurate to say that it happens to me. Like a summer storm, a house afire, or the coincidence of both on the same day.

Forgiveness is not simply the absolving of an enemy, or one who has done us wrong. Forgiveness must encompass all those things which disturb the tranquility of our soul.

Departed suns their trails of splendor drew Across departed summers: whispers came From voices, long ago resolved again Into the primeval Silence, and we twain, Ghosts of our present selves, yet still the same, As in a spectral mirror wandered there.

Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rare The summer to its rose may bring; Far sweeter to the wooing air The hidden violet of spring. Still, still that lovely ghost appears, Too fair, too pure, to bid depart; No riper love of later years Can steal its beauty from the heart.

There are many in this old world of ours who hold that things break about even for all of us. I have observed, for example, that we all get the same amount of ice. The rich get it in the summertime and the poor get it in the winter.

Autumn clouds, vague and obscure; The evening, lonely and chill. I felt the dampness on my garments, But saw no spot, and heard no sound of rain.

Summer has set in with its usual severity.