I write about what
I wish this world
Could be.

I write about a world
Where dreams collide
And metamorphosis
Under the gaze of the sun.

Somewhere with no beginning…
No end…
And only rapture in between.

My poems are my thoughts,
Screaming out loud.
They grab at the passerby
In an effort to stay alive.

Why do they have to live
In this dingy world?

Why do I?

What is reality, anyway,
But a state of mind?

To an accountant,
Numbers are the cold reality.

To a Buddhist monk,
Loss, love, and the wind
Are more “real”
Than the accountant’s
Silly numbers,
And the accountant laughs
At the monk’s foolish ideas.

Reality??

Define this forsaken term!


What is my reality, then?
What is my mind fooled
Into thinking
Is the world around me?

Which one is more real:
My mother singing a lullaby
Or what I felt when she did?

These questions none can answer
For sure.
My mind works as a rhetorical mess.
The answers
I guess none but me can know,
For I am the lone inhabitant
Of these strange, strange thoughts…