I normally don't share my writing with the public, but lately I'm feeling inclined. If you steal my words then you're shit.
Borrowing on the other hand, is totally fine.
This year on lunch breaks and before work I wrote a novella that I'm in the process of editing. I'm excited to share it, and even if no one likes it or wants to have it, I'll print a few for myself.
Here are a few ditties, I'll be adding more soon.

The Faces We Make Will Stay

Our faces are like maps.
Our faces are like paintings.
There can be so much meaning in every line of a drawing, in every shade of color in a painting. It reminds me of getting older, how our faces begin to crack like an old side walk. The crows fly in and land quietly on the corners of our eyes. The branches under their feet grow and grow, across our cheeks. Every single line means something. Every crease and tile of our skin implies an expression we made, moods we wore. Happy and sad lines, angry or mad lines, we can never lie about what we felt when it is written on our faces permanently. That's why I try my hardest to smile, to be laughingly passionate about everything so that you can see it in my face when I get old, that I had a good life.

It's Worth It.

I hear everything when I’m in my house.
The sound of every car, or bus… I hear the rain, when it does. The growling cars parking and pulling away, with alarms chirping like sick birds.
I’m convinced that I might even be able to hear the sun ricochet off the slowly disintegrating shingles of my roof. but it doesn’t bother me.

It doesn’t bother me because I hear life. And It’s worth waking up to.

In my bed I can also feel the cold of this morning; this morning was the coldest I can remember.
I awoke slowly, and all the sounds started coming in like someone had reached into my head and carefully turned up the volume.

The way my dreams melt away so slowly, makes me remember that someday it might never get warm again out there.
And then… a sad thought dawned on me, another thing I always fail to remember: That some people wake up and it’s the coldest morning not only in their beds, but also their hearts.

So I am writing to you, thinking about you, reaching out to remind you that the sun outside doesn’t warm everything; even the sun has a secret: once it is gone over the horizon,
it does not promise to return.

I realized this morning that sometimes it’s hard to control the sunrise and sunset inside you;
To raise and lower the gentle moon.
But someone has to do it,
And if I could…
I would.

We are the same

I can hardly remember a single night like this.
It's raining, no, it’s snowing.
They're the same, moving like slow puffs of steam under the fire of the street lamps.
The cars line up at the intersection, looking as if they are going to drag race.
It’s all a race, really.
The cars look mean — are mean.
Maybe they are the same thing.
Maybe everything is the same.

I’m late for a party, and I know I should leave this place,
Away from here, where I can see almost every splendor this city has to offer,
where I can hear almost every sound in the world,
leave from here, this place where I might fall in love.
I should run.

On Friday everyone has somewhere very important to be.
No one can be still, never.
There is life in them, life in us.
We cannot but quiver, cannot but resonate,
cannot hide the blood.
Their hair is black, their hair is golden, their roots are auburn, are umber, are ochre, are… violet?
The grass is straight, curling only because the wind and all it’s whispers are telling them to.
We all do as we are told.
We all take what we can get.
Blue eyes.
Their eyes are blue.
Their eyes are mostly brown because they are mostly human, and they take what they can get,
especially the children,
especially the sorry,
especially the hungry, and that is… all of us.

Fail?

This is not the last time I’ll try,
I will walk on, until there is no more ground to walk upon.
I will keep writing until these words grow old and bare,
until language disappears into the gelid air.
I’ll watch the world spinning around me, stopping never.
until I am dizzy no more or dizzy forever.
And turn my head with the moon across the sky,
I'll feel alive and never die,
and drink every last drop of lava from the sun,
to wash the shell from my soul, set me free to run.