Tag Archives: passion

Crying is Passion

Crying is


for life

Feeling is through tears

not skin

Feel the pain

the joy

the loss

the happiness


Crying is not a sin

Embrace yours

your feelings

just cause

you want to

just cause

you can

let yourself


feel free



explore from the inside


don’t forget to shout

go all out






Iron Butterfly



comes in

your final

hours, days, months, years

of desperation

after you’ve already asked politely

then questioned confusedly

erupted in anger

fallen silent

and erupted again

began to hate everyone

for a day

and everything

for an hour

lies seemed like the

only flowers that bloomed

after meaningfully meaningless discussions

which you wonder

really existed

in your mind

is where it all began

you went left

instead of right

you forgot you had to fight

things seemed easy for a while

you lingered too long on a smile

and now

ironically eloquence

comes in

your flickering final

glimpses of sanity

you know you’re not going to win


you fly









I’m here

doesn’t mean

be mean

don’t say what you mean

lean into your dislike

of my fight

let me know what’s wrong

what’s right

I’m here

doesn’t mean

don’t say

how you feel

forget to be real

imagine you’re in a soap opera


you’ve seen on TV

you forgot you were free

you have choice

your voice

is a spiritual instrument

that provides nourishment

or disease

I’m here

doesn’t mean

look down on me

tell me my lipstick is missing

when I never bought it

or bought into it

I feel fine

sometimes I drink wine

sometimes I hang with this

or that one

I’m not ashamed to have fun

tell me my clothes are not right

tell me my shoes are too bright

when you put up a fight

that’s how I know I’m alright

I’m Starting to Feel

I’m feeling like a writer
I’m feeling disappointment
and still
it’s all making sense
like why would this be easy
like every time I hear no
maybe it’s really because I said no
to something or someone else
something I could have done more
could have done better
like every time I hear no
it becomes
a part of my reason
I’m starting to feel like a writer
like it sucks to have to
explain 300 pages to someone who won’t
care until I make them care in 30 seconds
or less
or until the lights go out
or on
just read it
I’m thinking
like why do I have to stop
and explain to you
you need this
it’s obvious
to me
and for as long as you hesitate
is as long as you can fool yourself
that you know what you don’t know
that things are not presented to you
for a reason
every time
you procrastinate
you could be involved
assuming that my words
have something
you might need
now or later
I’m starting to feel like a writer
because you don’t think I am
and this suffering
is actually a comfort
because it reminds me
that my desires are real
and I need to pursue them
to exist
that my passions
are actually



my soul is stained on the pen
that wrote this verse
jammed by a substance
that prevents me from song
but when will song
from me
prevent that?
I am not a cat in a hat
or a violet that’s blue
I am feeling rivulets of sound
that crash up against my insides
from the outside
that paint my ears red
like air does to blood
that paint my eyes red
when I shift my head to catch a glimpse
of the sweetness clouds make
I’m open to concave, reflecting,
digesting parts of time
whose rhythm does not acknowledge
that of the tick-tock
My words flood my brain
like my blood
like the rain
no breaths to complement the pulse they make
unless they breathe when they evaporate
like cotton candy which is never sweet
unless first you eat
the air around it
If I poured the ink from this pen on my tongue
could I tell if my words were sweet?