This world we carry on our backs gets heavy sometimes 

our arms ache as we stare at the path ahead, 

a path we can't see an end to

pieces fall off and we wonder if they were important

as we try our hardest to not drop what we love most,

if we even know what that is anymore

because the perfectly separated layers of the world get shaken up sometimes

like a snow globe

we get lost in the sharp pieces of something that should be whole

the edges cut our skin and blood, diluted by tears, pools at our feet

we are looking for that little bit of warmth we pray is still alive

looking for a doctor to fix what is broken

but are we even broken? 

Because this world can be hard to understand sometimes

Like, really hard

like a crystal ball we don't know how to read

we get stuck in the quicksand trying to follow a trail left by bread crumbs

then we fall, fall into something we don't know how to explain

disoriented, confused, lost

This life is hard sometimes

Japan, 1863

I made the long walk

Across the plains,

through the village path

under the stars.

At long last, I came to the monastery

where a message was waiting on the fax machine:

It's Abe Lincoln. We need you.

In my heart is a girl who

Waltzes to the beat

Of the thrum, who

Surrounds herself with millions

Of fairly lights that

Twinkle with the stars, and

Each bear a story she

Cups her palms around and

Whispers her magic upon until

It sprouts wings and

Waltzes along with her;

She beams at her own successes, but

Even more at her friends’, and

Her whole heart, the size

Of my thumbnail adorned

With chipped nail polish,

Glimmers golden as

She hugs them and promises verses

Of hand-written poetry;

How I wish I was this girl,

Spinning breathlessly across a lake

Settled into the valleys of my heart, hair

Shining in the gentle light

Of the moon; How

I wish I was this graceful and

Grateful and beautiful, and

How I wish I could fall head-first

Into this page, this

Poem;

I think this girl in my heart,

Though, is

Actually in the heart my head

Wishes I have, but

Isn’t the girl waltzing,

Spinning, dancing

Through the millions of fairy lights

She’s surrounded herself by, which

Have multiplied with every one

Of her dreams,

Still

A part of me?

I speak, you speak.

Together we share the emotions we’re feeling.

Giving and taking that wonderful thing called Empathy.

Together.

We speak our minds, cry together.

Share our fears, our thoughts, our feelings.

And we help each other.

We give a listening ear.

We talk, then we listen, each in turn.

Our friendship is full of heartfelt conversations.

Speaking together, listening together.

Giving and taking that empathy we both need.

Feeling heard.

Feeling like we matter.

That’s the true power of Empathy.

at first

you were the loud boy on the bus 

with a red lunchbox 

full of day old spaghetti in a dented thermos

and parmesan your dad brought back from italy 

you were the boy that made me laugh 

even when I didn't want to

you then became my friend

my polar opposite 

my partner in crime 

getting me in trouble 

and I didn't even mind 

we drew comics and cartoons 

with expensive pens and markers 

making characters that said 

what we were too scared to say 

and we would walk loops around my house

in the blue dark talking 

about things that made us wise beyond our years 

then one day 

behind the leaning pine tree 

in my overgrown backyard 

you told me that you liked me 

and asked if I felt the same

and suddenly I froze 

elementary mind turning to stone

running from fate I didn't understand 

it's been years since that november day 

and I like to think I've grown 

but you still make me nervous 

in a good way

whenever we're alone

there is something in your eyes 

and maybe in your smile 

that I've always liked to hide from

but I think it might be time

Misting

slowly, a dusting of pearly droplets

coats the world.

each one lands separately,

but over time, they all combine.

joining forces

melting together

to overtake the earth.

We humans-

sitting at home

bored at work 

walking in the "rain"-

we don't even notice 

their mighty effort

to band together

and make a difference

and so we sit,

oblivious to them

and oblivious to what

or who

might be oblivious to us.

Is it really?

Is writing just a waste of my time, 

and a waste of time for others to read?

Is writing this here now, 

is it really useless?

According to some people it is.

But how can they say that?

How on Earth can people say that

when writing is its very foundation?

Honestly,

I feel bad for them,

not knowing the joys

of writing a masterpiece.

And not knowing the joys

of winning a contest.

Or maybe

just the feeling of letting go 

and thinking

of nothing but your writing.

Maybe that's just me though,

and it is  really useless.

Maybe it is useless,

and it's just me

who pours their heart out 

to strangers online, 

because I know that they'll respond

kindly, and they'll be supportive.

Maybe it is useless.

And I'm just not seeing it's uselessness.

But even if it is,

I'm still going to spend all of my time

doing something useless,

because it's my favorite thing.

And I don't think that'll ever change.

Even if it is useless.

It all started with the big bang — the mighty "thwack"-ing noise that connected my body to the prickly embrace of the wood chips below. My descent from the jungle gym was far from graceful, solo mission "rescue Mr. Beanie Boo" undone by gravity's merciless pull.

Dazed and seeing stars, I lay on my back and listened to the noise of other kids orbiting the playground. 

It was then, that suddenly, faster than a shooting star, she appeared — clutching my Beanie Boo in her arms like a cosmic offering. 

It was then I knew my universe had expanded for good.

Today I saw my sister

the way she used to be—

not because she changed,

but because I remembered.

She was just there,

messy with noodles,

doing nothing special at all.

And somehow

that made it everything.

For a second,

the years folded in on themselves.

Her younger face

fluttered across the present

like a ghost made of memory.

And I thought—

Has that much time really passed?

When did “right now” become “back then”?

When did little turn into growing?

The moment slipped by fast,

like they all do.

But I caught it.

And I’m keeping it.

Not to be sad.

Not to wish things back.

But to remind myself

how quickly seconds turn into years—

and how every ordinary moment

is secretly a treasure.

this will be

the first 

and the last 

dance 

we'll share 

I'll be wearing pink

riding high on a childhood dream

waltzing 

like it's 1945

and you 

will wear a dark suit

matching the depth of your eyes

your eyes

which will tell me everything I need to know

even though we know our love has died

you will spin me round

my skirt twirling in the night air 

and hold me a little closer 

until the song slows

and the record stops

you will hide your pain from me

and pretend it's not goodbye 

when we leave the ballroom

but as I turn back, 

your jacket over my shoulders

I'll realize

first love

never dies completely

it just sinks

to the bottom of your heart 

like a body in the east river

and I know then

I will not miss you

but I will always love you