My Sweetest Rose

I once met a fully grown flower girl.

Not flower power, flower child, but a real desert rose.

Not gypsum and barite but the organic kind of flower that only grows once in a thousand years.

And I picked that flower. Didn’t water it, stepped on it on my way to the porch.

It still grew:

Wild and free – despite my chastise, but never in spite.

She said: come on boy, open the curtains – let in some light.

And for a moment, it was summer.

But winter came and I buried my rose in the dirty snow of the seasons.

And she grew rigid and cold in the hard pack of stomped-in-ice.

Many fires I lit to try and convince her:

I swear – if you just bloom, it’ll feel so nice.

But frostbitten as a January rose – her lip quivered in innocent fear.

And I tried to squeeze her tighter – G-d damnit, come here!

So I buzzed round that bud like a bee, greedy and selfish, and nothing a rose would need.

I flew far from the roost – hungry to be drunk, in search of a nectar as sweet.

And woe was me, so full of poison, a real killer bee.

How many times she took me back – on dirty and broken wings…

Yet each time, I asked:

What had happened to that summer – when the rose too had needed me?

But the universe knew better.

Three times three summers later – I was stung by bees.

Until finally; one day – I lie wounded in the street.

I thought only of her soft petals (those cheeks on my baby lamb).

I feared much: would my rose still give a damn?

What had I brought her, but the buzz of my song.

For I had robbed her of her sweetness. My my, I did her wrong.

And as I tried to fly for the final time – I realized: my sweetest rose had been there all along.

Make Your Place

When I was younger I didn’t know how to fulfill my own heart. I thought my place in the world was something I had to find – or that it would find me. Nobody ever told me that I should just do my best to make a place for myself in this world. Because that’s as home as you’ll ever be. #thinkinganddriving

Prelude to Untitled

The sound of a fork and knife gently rapping against a dinner plate gave me a yearning for the kind of domestic bliss you both love and take for granted at the same time. Hearing this felt like the kind of perfect summer’s breeze whose bliss catches you with the kind of sudden wonder that makes you happy to be alive; it wasn’t just the sound of grilled asparagus being consumed, it was the sound of my hopes and dreams. Within me is the perfect picture of a summer’s dinner on the patio balcony at sunset.