Dear Former English Teacher I Had, 
I used Cliff’s Notes for The Grapes of Wrath because at 16 all I really wanted to do was dream about holding hands with a boy, not read about The Dust Bowl. 
I’m sorry if my admission disappoints you. 
Vivan los libros!

Me

​Dear Self,  

I just wanted to tell you that I love you. You have gone through so much in the past year, and have proven yourself to be stronger, braver, and more beautiful than I ever dreamed you could be. The changes I continue to see in you are things of pure magic, and the ember that you kept glowing within you is transforming into a wonderful, burning flame.  

I know you get lonely and scared, but I want you to know that you are so strong, and talented, and heroic. You made decisions that were extremely difficult, but you followed your heart and made them anyway, knowing you deserved to be free.  

Look at you, trying new things, meeting new people, living in a new place. You are a warrior, and you’ve done this without falling back into alcohol use or other harmful activities. That is amazing.  

Don’t you let that fire out. Don’t you dare. I know at times it sputters as gusts of wind try to snuff it out, but you keep burning, little flame, you stay alive and full of light. You have so much love to share with this world, just look at the people you’ve drawn closer to you, feel how much they care about you. That is real, and you deserve to be loved and thought of fondly. You really do.  

Anyone outside of your situation who doesn’t give you the support, love, and encouragement you deserve? That is not through any shortcoming on your part. You have done exactly what your heart knew needed to be done.  

If others think differently of you because of those necessary choices, that is their issue, not yours. Only you know what needed to be done and know what you desire in life to be happy. Never live to please others. True happiness must blossom from within.  

Those ideas spinning around your head about ways to help others? Do it. Embrace the present, grasp this fleeting moment, and put yourself out there. Do it FOR YOU. Do it because the storm in you must be released. Do it for the freedom. Do it for the peace, for the love and the strength that is so big and so bright that you cannot possibly keep it inside.  

Make art and write about your struggles, your successes, your dreams and your fears. If no one else understands, that doesn’t matter as long as you do these things out of love and of light.  

You got this. Keep trekking down the path and see where it goes. Grasp the hands offered to you, and extend your hands in turn if you are willing and able to assist others. Tell yourself that you are loved, that you deserve to be happy, to be treated well, to be told you are beautiful and amazing. You are. You really and truly are.  

Cry when you need to. Don’t keep those emotions inside. Laugh at yourself. Keep exploring your mind and tinkering with different ways to keep yourself at peace. Enjoy this ride, however long it lasts. Make it count, make it gorgeous, and make it full of love.  

No matter how dark things may sometimes get, you’ve already survived through so much. Accept life’s lessons, use them to guide you and help you grow. You are doing great, and I’m so, so proud of you.  

I know exactly what you’ve been through.  

I see you. 

I hear you. 

I feel you. 

I AM you. 

I Love, 
You

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​My paint brushes are dry. 

Saddened, they cannot weep. 

“FILL US WITH PAINT! 

LET US MANIFEST YOUR DREAMS!”
“But all my dreams are of visits with musicians, 

and, as such, are not overly fantastical.”
They stare at me from behind artificially manufactured fringe. 

Never real horse hair. 

That’d just be disgusting. 
“While perhaps not of dragons, 

or monsters or lore, 

let your art be the journey 

you battle with brush.”
“This poem isn’t very good,”

I inform them. 

“Paintbrushes don’t talk, 

and you were supposed 

to say something about 

how art manifests dreams.”
“Don’t push it, sister,” 

Round Number 4 warns. 

“We like to make messes, 

but we can’t write for shit.”

“Eleanor is a story about a girl, and that is the end of describing it in a linear way. Eleanor is not just about Eleanor, but all the women in her family. Her pregnant grandmother who disappeared in the waves of the ocean, a twin sister Esmerelda who died in an accident, and a mother intent on drowning herself in a sea of alcohol round out this story. Eleanor gets thrust into the fantastical and unexplainable, which is both beautiful and flinchingly painful. I must be honest and say that I have no idea how to review this story. The best way for me as the reader to paint a picture of this book is to simply use descriptive words. Guilt, anger, grief, mystery, determination, love, and redemption. It is a magnificent novel, the writer weaves together a tale that breaks your heart and then pieces it back together while you admire and encourage the strength in Eleanor. It has been a long time since I have been truly moved and fascinated by a book. Jason Gurley has crafted something magical.” 

“…and then, as the last of our broken playground hearts were rusting in the dust, 

a solitary mongrel spotted us and approached.  

And though his hackles raised, 

his teeth were never bared.   

Rather, as our icy shivers passed, 

a flag unfurled in friendship, 

and our spirits did align.” 

–For Dao Synchronous–

I felt a tapping on my spine that hearkened back to when I was young, 
and to make decisions as to whether I should go or stay, 

I would simply flip a coin. 

I’d  feel that ghostly finger probing, 

guiding me along,

pushing, pulling, steering, wheeling, 

a compass at my back. 

Let’s leave it up to something greater, 

more mysterious than life. 

When we were young and indecisive, 

we’d let the roulette spin, 

choosing Fate, not indecision,  

numbers and the signs. 

This constant lack of lit direction 

burns without a flame, 

and opens wide the mystic curtains 

of mystery’s design. 

Let’s list the ways the day could evolve, 

and let the wind decide. 

Shall it be a daring venture, 

or a calm night of stars? 

Why risk the worry, 

let us only 

plan to live and love? 

And breathe in deep the scents of living, 

trust to chance and be. 

“Music Via Lactea” 

[Allow me to introduce you to the things that bring me joy… 

the notes that pluck the heartstrings, 

the sounds that mend my soul.] 

 
This particular number, 

with its staticked pops and grooves, 

has often brought me solace

through the darkness and the fear. 
 

And this voice of gargled whiskey, 

growling through the night, 

has often been my reason 

to fill another page. 
 

The smudged perfection, 

ink on crumpled collar, 

fingers like twisted trees, 

beauty bent and strange. 
 

Let me share with you the first time 

a voice made me alive, 

and made me feel like falling 

upwards and not down. 
 

The words once written by another 

in some unknown place;

about someone, something secret, 

yet in tune with me. 
 

My heart, my life, my love and dreaming, 

the words, the beat, the sounds, 

of a million hidden, sacred moments, 

atoms in the flames. 
 

How like a mind to embrace word choice, 

how like a soul to move, 

in time with every passed rotation

of that turning disc. 
 

A disc that spirals round its beauty, 

centered at the heart;

so like the disc we all inhabit, 

Via Lactea. 
 

A Fibonacci to the center, 

the music that is All;

No wonder we find light in music, 

when it’s all we are. 

–This post is for Dao Synchronous.– 

The secret to solving any mystery is to realize they don’t always need to be solved. 

Like the ripple of change by a stone’s throw, sometimes the biggest successes start with a single drop of rain. 

Sometimes the quietest stream hides the most tumultuous current. 

A coincidence is a pessimistic way of interpreting what could be a synchronous moment of Universal Magic. Is it not better to take that risk, to be brave and see where the meteor goes than sit passive and fearful, doubting your worth? Why give time to me, you ask? Why NOT you, my dear one? We are all of the same light and love.  

You were sure 

You were sure 

Be that sure. 

…… 

“Moth With the Cinder Wings”

Those who are afraid to speak, 

who hold the most fragile sense of self, 

are often the most beautiful moths at the flame. 

Their wings have been frayed and singed 

by the repeated attempts at escape, 

which to some is interpreted as a sign of weakness. 

However, how is it weak to never give up? 

To, despite the repeated pain, 

the failings and tears, 

continue to aim for that star shining bright

 to keep the dream ignited, 

to not think I CAN’T but only NOT YET. 

That moth with the wings of cinder and soot, 

whose faded exterior may not be the most lovely, 

is a lesson to those who would tear off its wings,

for the cruel desire to cover themselves in the shine of another. 

There is always the promise of light, 

keeping that tiny being from not giving up, 

to instill in it that love, 

the only thing that holds value. 

Though it aches and is ragged, 

and is no butterfly, 

it feels that pull 

to return to the source. 

It would endure a thousand tears, 

a thousand shocks, 

a thousand cries in the night, 

for one small  reminder 

of the light pool again. 

To feel the whole ocean, 

of which it’s a drop. 

But that same bit of lightning, 

that same pull to return, 

to be not in light 

but of light 

to go back to All. 

Forgotten. 

Scared. 

Alone. 

Together. 

Reassured. 

Remembered.