Ourselves as liars.

Imagine

there are two sides to every story,

sometimes three, four,

most times there are twelve.

It depends,

on who we are, who we’ve been

and who we’re trying to be,

like auditioning for a role.

And it’s easy to say,

that you never tell a lie,

or that I’m always wrong.

If I were to believe that,

if you, are so able to believe that

then, clearly

somebodies a liar.

Vital Weeds.

When you start to look

into other people’s lives

you start to see

whose lives are worth

looking into, and sort of

weed out those

you dabbled in, that turned out

to be nothing more

than forgettable,

nothing more than

vital weeds.

Not so fiction.

Not

every

person

is meant

to

stay

in your life

forever,

but

that doesn’t mean

you can’t tell

their

story,

it doesn’t mean

they’re

not

a part of yours,

so be a dear

and change a name or two,

just don’t

spoil

the end —

they’ll know if you do.

This is me trying to be o.k.

I am trying to be o.k.

Thinking about young souls who’ve past.

Contemplating Cancer’s reasons.

Sometimes hearts just stop.

This is me, trying to be o.k.

Not that young anymore.

Grey hair no longer a curse,

but more of a blessing – there is beauty in age.

For now, I am o.k.

As for tomorrow, history

seems to shrug it’s shoulders

leaving me out of the loop.

And I’m o.k. with that.

This is me trying to be o.k.