Hardcover with a dust jacket and copyrighted in 2008, this beauty sits on my second shelf from the top near a few other autobiographies. The Last Lecture  itself is more than a journey written about a man's life, but moreover about the discovery of what living is. Littered with personal pictures along its journal like thick papers and uneven edges, there's a connection that bonds reader to author simply from the story being told: we are grieving with him as he tells his story. We are laughing as he shares his silly moments, and picking him up by the bootstraps as he makes mistakes. It all becomes personal for us, because we are the human spirit and Pausch enlightens us in his storytelling. When we all are faced with certain death-many dont know the time which it comes near nor have the capability or the poignancy and wisdom to share the richness of the soul. There is a beauty within this book. Once you read it, you will never be the same. Grab your copy The Last Lecture, by...

I am not impressed. Not impressed with the way your tongue moves, shifts vowels and constants together in a stinging way to reflect more vinegar than honey. Not impressed with bones of structure that God himself removed a rib to construct thee, but you don't fine my moves that Heavenly. Not all all moved. Captivated by goodbyes becoming more welcoming than hellos, and bitter sweets are accompanied by rum. And I'm numb. Surgically altered into slices and dices, how you expertly cared out the compassion and left the nothingness within me. Exalted. Never exalted. By pillars of upon pedastles that former lovers gave with ease, molehills become mountains from the fragment of small nonsensical things. I am not loved. Rabbits out the hat aren't your thing. Magic tricks aren't illusions so easily carved into truthful lips. He sways back and forth to falsify eyes where shadows are grasped by time instead of emotional movements. Grass is not greener. Never is. Maintenance require...

He always made me feel beautiful.  It was his eyes. Always his eyes.  The way they moved, shaped around the room from Here to there. Concrete slabs to distal frames and then carbon based flesh Unpeeled like the the forbidden fruit that I wasn't but liked to be. The thrill is in the chase Never the capture But you knew you had me every time, didn't you? Rhetoric lies in hidden thighs And shapely fingers wanting to grasp them. The longing. Always in the longing. The desire to be touched. Felt. Needed. Adored. Every breath more Heavier than the next,  Exhaustive of its whim and pure muse. You made me feel so beautiful That even in warped hair where slumbered dreams seemed To find you and me together in reverie T-shirts surpassed mini skirts and  Pheromones replace perfumes in  Which we inhale and consume each other bit by bit Kiss by kiss Lick by lick And you Just you Make make feel so absolutely beautiful. I could stare at you forever.  Watch you stare at me....

Sometimes, you don't have it in you. The ability to write. The passion. The muse. Other times, the brain works damn hard to forget memories that the heart wants to release upon pen and paper. Scream out to the whole world for shock therapy and pure amusement and undeniable "I told you so's". Seems like this period of non writing is the latter. The brain wanting to forgive. Wanting to go to a distant, numbing place of not even entering the truth or release. I just don't want to go there now. Perhaps I will soon. But not now. Not publicly. Haven't updated here in a while, and must share why. There are days where the chronic pain eats up my soul and I feel like I cannot even write a line. Nights are longer. Other stuff. So for right now, some deepest darker poetry---the really meaty stuff? It's not for the public eye. Just for me. And for now, I'm not even ready for release. Perhaps soon. Until then, I'll be writing other things. Other topics. Foc...

In this tiny pinky finger The smallest of all, holds the greatest of fates. So I'm told. Funny how the little finger is used. Its digits fragile in comparison. The oddly notion that it has the most strength. Somehow, it grasps a little red piece of string, fiery in all it's glory. A cord designed to withstand seasons and the tides of time. Somehow, it's straight and tangled. A beautiful web of loops and holes filled with destinations and environments. Times I have kissed you. Will kiss you. Wont kiss you. Places knitted in Fabrics of dimension and the magnificence seconds, piled high To the brim of clockmakers and cartographers. I pull, you follow. You stretch, I fill in the gaps. we twist and turn, bend and run, swoop and stand still, fall and lift up Miles away and up close, in dreams and conscious awake All of that movement, yet it still does not break. And did it not even come close to undone? Never. Didn't we Become one entangled in skin an...

The world is literally at your fingertips. Any world you want. Any world you are willing to create with your mind and beyond in the world of books. Anyone that knows me knows that I am complete bibliophile. It started when I was little, reading my bible by the nightlight, and other books thereafter. Insomnia was my best friend even in prepubescent years. I battled dragons, fell down rabbit holes, entered tollbooths with clocks as dogs, and had a prince on a white horse in the end. When the book ended, it was almost surreal. How could this be? Here I am, with this imagination far beyond my brain can comprehend and the world keeps ticking as if this other world doesn't exist. I craved more. Wanted more day by day. Where friends lacked, books were my comfort. They taught me unique words that surprised my Mommom. "Cumulonimbus clouds. Yep. It's gonna rain," said a wiser me, looking outside my grandmother's silver Celica, waiting for the oncoming storm to come. I...

All of time and space, Compacted in Pantone 2955C Hidden corridors and secret spaces Blanketing stars and the dimension of galaxies. Take me there, my sweet wooden box Lets run among danger and fantasy Land on soils of earth and discover The language of rewritten history. I want to say hello to her. Hello, sweet girl. For you, I will pause a breath in rewind or pinpoint an area of fixed time Open the blackness that was ugly in despair Show you the future in a blue box And tell you to take care. Cause we'll run Won't we run, my ancient and new lord of time? Spark a newness in souls And see beauty redefined For all of time and space You point to the sky and say choose one And beyond all the eyes can see Supernovas explode For the journey has just begun--- My little blue box As I'm given the silver key. Geronimo.