More of You

Time moves so slowly,
there is more I want to do.
 Who am I really,
if I do not serve you?


My soul is stirred by the sound of the wind;
a chill runs through my spine.
I  wait for your voice to fill my mind.
I long to feel your spirit once again.

Destinee

Laughter fills the air
the breeze rolls on by
This time is ours to share
I'm most happy when I see your eyes

Your soft, brown hair tickles my cheek
as we roll around on the grass
Surrounded by all the Willow trees,
we secretly hope for this moment to last.

The sun begins to set
I hug you close to me
this moment we will never forget
it is ours for eternity

I love you, my sweet "fate"
You're forever in my heart
If I'd one wish to make,
it'd be that we never two shall part

Indigenous

Indigenous

I belong on this land.
N ative born, it is all I know.
D isplacement brought much sorrow.
I ran away, hidden away in the tall grass.
G enocide can only strip away so much DNA.
E nding the lives of so many, for what cause?
N ever forget the true agriculturists of this land
O ppression stripped the human rights of my ancestors
U nity was never an option.
S ubjagation is never the answer.

Homeless

My tears slowly fall, as if on cue, one by one.
I squeeze my eyes shut, a subtle attempt to stop the this emotion.
Did I not make myself clear? I have nothing more to say.

Please leave me alone now. Walk away.
I have everything I need, with me, in this bag, and on my feet. My clothes will be my shelter,
I am complete. I will NOT bite the hand that feeds me. Those were not my true intentions.
I am less than a man. I am homeless.

Of all the places

Of all the places I love best, my most favorite is my bed.
I'm grateful that I have one, and I take great care of it, too.
A comfy pillow top mattress to lay my heavy head,
along with the softest sheets to chase away my blues.

My bed is the place I go to sleep at night.
It assists me to a quick slumber,
and holds me when I write.
No, my bed does not have a number.

Boxed Goods

My current mood, a roller coaster of emotions.
Down on the floor, I calm the commotion.
Memories are scattered and somehow misplaced.
I want to keep them all, but yet I have no space.
Above me, a mind's eye view of dreams yet to be dreamed.
Time is standing still for me.
Uncontrollable tears stream down now.
Box it all up? What? How?

Christmas

I can't sleep. The sound of the night is creeping into my head. It won't let me rest, and now I'm out of bed. My Christmas tree is lit red this year, and the tree smells beautiful at night. I have somehow given into writer's block. I keep trying to tell myself that the anxiety of the Holidays are keeping me from adding to my work in progress. My characters are on vacation.

Christmas time is an anxious time for me. I am 32 years old now, and I still expect Santa to come to my house in the middle of the night, like he did when I was 3 years old. Yes. I do have a mind of my own, and a great memory to help me remember the details.

I wish Santa would come in and have a chat with me.