I do not raise my voice, I raise my brow. That is enough to rearrange

Everyone wants to be a writer. Few want to learn to swim. A school of

You call when nights are cold and long, When he’s not there, and you feel

Ever felt like your opinions were swallowed mid-sentence? Like your feelings queued politely, but were

Where is the mirror? Is there a friend standing there? I rummage through old memories

Many say, Ethics is only what my heart whispers, what my feelings approve. But feelings

I circle the same old questions, like beads on a restless thread, tying and untying

I live a thousand lives within one quiet span, where time and space dissolve into

On a starry, cold night, In a humble and simple nativity scene, Jesus, the divine

My life is a live-wire sky, sparks leaping from every forgotten wound.. a heartbeat that

I learned to run with hurried feet, chasing horizons made of fire— the wind behind

I learned to run with hurried feet, chasing horizons made of fire— the wind behind

No matter the economy of the forest, the lion will never eat grass. For destiny