On days where my self-confidence is low,
I wish wearing a sword belt would become socially acceptable again.

Nothing would make me feel more like an epic badass
then having a sword on one hip
and a dagger on the other.

I wouldn't have to pull either from their sheaths,
twirl them around
or be threatening.

No, just being able to carry around physical proof to myself
that I am strong, sharp, and willing to lunge through the air at a moment's notice
would be enough.

The weight of blades
within reach
and within sight
to show myself that i am just as powerful
as I've always imagined myself to be.

So is permission to wear my swords around
in public without a fuss being made
​so much to ask?

I took a stroll through my mind today.
And there were patches that were nice, I'll admit.

Groves of trees strung with fairy lights
and crossed by brooks that chuckled as they ran.

Art galleries of memories
exhibiting days when I laughed until I cried.

Even a white-sand beach
where the whispers of the tide lulled me to sleep.

But there were moments when dark mist choked out the light
where claws reached out and ripped at me,
their many knuckles popping and cracking as I jerked away.

Or when the ground beneath me broke apart
like a gaping maw, complete with rows of teeth.
I don't remember how I got away.
Only that when it opened
I tumbled and shrieked for days.

My mind can be a lovely place,
but next time
I'll remember to bring a friend along
to help guide me
when the monsters become too much.

I want to uncover a mountain.
Walk from it's very peak and
study it, all the way 
to the roots. Where it
grows from soft earth
into a
stoney
​keep.

The night air is smooth
and strokes my cheek with fickle
shaded fingertips.

We cannot be everything. Sad, but true.
As the more we tear ourselves asunder,
the less each part is given its just due.
The more we yearn to revise our blunders,
our regret thrums inside us like thunder.
We have to pick and choose our battles here.
To be a Shakespeare or a buccaneer.
To be who we want, not who we should be.
No matter how being everything endears,
You are a person. A human. A me.

With every step I take
I drag my feet through pools of color,
swirling waves radiating from me
and mixing new intense undertones.

This is a world abandoned,
unfinished.

The skeleton was sketched out.
I see the bruised outlines of trees
maybe skyscrapers or towers in the distance,
but they are shades
barely distinguishable from a sky absent of clouds or stars.

With each new color I find,
I hope that it will be the one to rekindle the life here
that seemed so promising at the beginning to our creator,
but somehow fell short of expectations
or was just too boring.

If I can find it,
then maybe my own hands can fill in the gaps
and splatter the paint the way I've always wanted it to be.
Maybe then, there will be others.
Not just a single set of footprints
and a single pair of eyes
searching the horizon for that creative spark.

Then I can experience a living world
and finally live along with it.

I guess it's never too late (or early)
for a screaming match outside.
Voices ringing out through the night
thin walls and locked doors.
Man or woman doesn't stop the verbal abuse.

My inner peacekeeper wants to run out
barefoot and pajama-clad,
and beg them to stop.
Talk them down somehow.
Keep everyone safe.

But the terrified child in me is stronger-willed tonight.
My heart's pounding too loudly
for me feet to hold me.
And my shaking hands could never turn the doorknob.

Does that make me a coward?
Or am I just overcome with self-preservation?
Either way, for now
I am the silent bystander,
praying that for the fighting to end
with peace
​and not a final scream.

A bow let loose to soar
without an arrow in sight,
dipping low and shooting high,
calling forth notes and rhythms from the mind and breath.

Even from another city,
I hear the bow dancing
and taste the flurry of notes on my tongue,
wishing I could be in the room
as you play,
and that when I cheer for you at the end of every piece
you could hear me.

Slumber's got its claws
in you. Pulling and dragging
without your consent.

Gaze inside the crystal, hero.
Tell me what you see.

You must open your mind to its knowledge
and the words it shares with glee.
What does it speak to you?

Let your mind's eye run free and tell me,
great savior of this world.
What visions does it conjure?

Perhaps, a palace of pearl and blue,
with riches piled high?

Or maybe songs sung in your honor
and a fame no man can deny?

Whatever you see therein
all fragmented and shining,
is your true and final goal.

And with this vision, I ask you this.
Are you worthy of it?
And what is it you will sacrifice
to mend the world's woes?
What sins will you commit?