Tuesday, July 25, 2017

Grey Day, HOORAY! Here's a poem for RIGHT NOW:

Some days feel like fall.

Fall into the spirit of the moment.

Moments are what life is made from.

From outside to inside I take a pause.

Pause life? Impossible.

Impossibilities are a lie.

Lies can drown a person.

People don't often realize or listen well.

Well, at least you're here today.

Today is the time to read between the lines.

Line the inner drawers of your heart with cushions of strength.

Strength is shown in compassion and emotion.

Emotions are not a sin or a crime.

Crimes against oneself or others are all too common.

Common ground is the space between you and the enemy.

Enemies are created; they're fiction.

Fiction is not as strange as the truth.

Truth is subjective.

Subjectivity is every person's experience in life.

Life, in essence, is breath...


Monday, May 1, 2017

Take My Hand Cause' We're Walking Out Of Here... - D.M.B.

A new hair cut.

I cut my own.

I snip the split ends, like I wish I could snip the problems of the world: Cleanly off.

I trim two inches.

Not enough.

Two more.

Wait a few days....

Another few inches hit the floor.

Feather, feather, feather.

Kelsey taught me this...

Just a little at a time.

Even isn't the issue.


Like ogres and onions and my home-done haircut.


So long.

Grow it out, trim it up, cut it off.


Sometimes I wish it was.

Sometimes I wish for red fuzz a quarter inch off my scalp.

What message would that send the haters?

I am my own me.

The boss of my body.

Self-esteem tangled in hair.

Red hair. Redhead.

Should I dye it blonde?


I want the world to change, but fighting though I am, it's not. Not yet. Soon, I hope.

Appearance, image, esteem.

Challenge my own opinions of myself.

Will I be less me with a buzzed head or platinum locks?

Someday I'll have the guts.

Maybe sooner rather than later, I'll take more of a chance.

For now, I just dare to cut my own hair.

Friday, January 20, 2017

And So It Begins...

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.