And I love

And I love
All of these and more.

These feet
That do not touch the ground
When seated over a chair,

This voice
Too high pitched that pierces
My own ears,

That laugh
Loud and noisy,
Unfit for normal conversations.

But I love
All of these and more.

These lips
At times that speak words
That were better not spoken,

Those hands
Breaking things into pieces
That cannot be rejoined without a scar,

This blurry eyes
That stare into the skies
Hoping to count all of the stars someday.

Yet I love
All of these and more.

This heart
Completely flawed
That still keeps on beating.

And I love
All of these and more,
All of these and more.

Five Years Old

What did you think of dreams
when you were five years old?
The first time you could count all
your fingers on one hand,
because thats how old you were.

Did you think about Ali baba and the treasures of gold
or the Knight that marched down the road?
Did you see the mountains that surrounded you,
one thousand years old.

What did you think of dreams back then?
Perhaps it was a parrot’s cage or a lion’s den,
or that blue inked pen
now completely broken.

Tell me my friend,
what did you think of dreams
when you were five years old?
The first time you could count all
your fingers on one hand.
Legs too short, hands too tiny
and yet dreams so bold.

Did you not want to be the hero?
A cape across your back
jumping into life straight from your bookrack,
colorful pages scribbled across,
some things that did not belong to you
like that little pink frock.

Stupid was I
when I was five years old,
unknown to the idea that papers when once fold,
draw scars over them like stories untold.

What did I think of dreams
when I was five years old?
The last story before the silence of the night,
the new shoes because the old ones got too tight.

May be I am still five years old,
even when my age does not fit into my hand, finger or toes,
and I still think of Ali baba and the treasure of gold,
the mountains that surrounded me
one thousand years old.

When I was five years old,
dreams were what I saw at nights,
when the owls opened their eyes and the cats danced,
the dogs slept and the mouse ran.

When I was five years old,
dreams were what I saw at nights,
with eyes closed
and lips tied.

Dreams were what we saw at nights,
with eyes closed
and lips tied.

The Joy of Art

Put these tears into words

And you shall be invincible.

Summon your most prized valorous knight,

Summon your inner most demons,

The untold characters jumping inside your head.

Lead them through their journeys,

While you go through your own voyage.

Weave your secret dreams, and cut them,

Because that is the only way you may learn.

Art is not just about reality,

It goes beyond any realm any creature

Has ever seen,

Only those who have been there

Have known its joy.

 

Uniform

Sometimes I miss that uniform
How along with other hundreds of students
We wore the same dress pant
Day after day year after year

I miss that uniform
And those braided hair
That I hated back then
Those white socks
And the grey red stripped tie

I miss the uniform
And how most if not everyone
Looked funny in it
With the oversized dress and pant
The thought that we could become
Pretty swans once we got rid of it