To allow yourself to feel
is the strongest thing
a human can do.

When we feel,
we are raw.
They say vulnerability
makes us weak—

But the truth is:
being vulnerable
makes you even stronger.

Because you have nothing to hide,
nothing to run from.
Your body cooperates
with your mind.

In Sanskrit, they call it — sahaja —
that which is born with you.
Feelings are not a weakness,
they are our guide.

To feel is to be.

Hope is the last thing ever lost" - Italian proverb

Hope.
And what if it is lost.
Call to it to come back.
It will come even in the face
of terminal blackness.
Walk into the ravaging dark.
Fall apart so that you may find,
Those long lost moments that made you shine.
The fireflies of the mind.
That flashing glow somehow soothes
things gone out of control.
Save one in a jar in your soul.
Hope.
The magic light that ignites internal growth.

sleep well be well the
mind is a dream just here

have done so much wrong
that i have forgotten my
mind is confused truth

O mind
When will you be still
You get blossomed
In the wake of love
You feel happy
Surrounded by relations
Sometimes you stumble
Cry and you get up
You hold the thread
Of hope
In moments you are free
Flying in sky
In moments you are on
Journey of love
O mind,
When will you be still?

i've watched you die one thousand times
in one hundred different ways

still, i can't decide which is worse
what my mind creates at night,
or, what we found that day

this reoccurring theme of mine,
all that i've catastrophized,
comes out at night to play

sometimes, my mind
makes me watch you die -

a masochistic gift for me

sometimes, it's that i know you'll die
and i can't warn of what i see

once i dreamt you faked your death
to prove our lack of care
you didn't even tell your best friend, Steve
he was just as confused and unaware
"i knew it! you guys don't love me"
you screamed, as i stood there

my mind still fights the guilt i have
but it rears its ugly head

i woke up on my 25th birthday
crying, from the torments of my bed

the dreams that make me pause the most
are where you live
but you're not you

you're angry, and hurt, and you're like a child
and you won't calm down to speak to me
and i don't know what to do

but i know why i have that dream
it's my soul's decline of guilt

because if that's what we saved you for
our lives couldn't have been rebuilt

my mind wanders to that night
staring down the stairs

it's my mind and it pleads with me:
it's better we weren't there

Shrunken
Sentences into digital para
meters.
Glance at a screen forever
Stolen
Sightless birds criss-crossing
And swiping food away.
Hands full with
Thoughts
Emptied and tidied ferociously
They
Discovered.
Jury retired defendant
Launches new attack pattern
Society
Crumbles.
Again.

Familiar was the squawk of dawn's happy choir.    
A cheerfulness so potently dire.    
When daily suffering is inescapable    
Anguish does not discriminate or label.    
A man's belly, barren of bread, aches in pain.
An ache the same,
As the obsession to be desired by the vain.    
To the blacksmith of thought, we are the tool.    
The mastery of thought is the saving rule.

Ye olde Yo-***, advises get thee to a nunnery of trees, leaves of sunlight scorched sunrises and sunsets to clear the cobwebs and recall more fully the good stuff,  like in Oregun,

allow it to resonant via ****** shots of temporal, but seasonal natural harmony, a more regulat visitor of the upcoming comes of good weather and the life by the water, on a tiny islansd, long lazy days, and a lessening of the
mental haze-ing

punctuating life with long walks and teardrops of tears, poetry suggestives, will be dropping from icy white cumulus every day clouds, moving to uncover the elaborate and running trills of colutara words lurking within, no more the blaring horns of trafficked sounds of First Ave., trucks fighting to de-liver-er the urgencies of consumption (a most excellent disease) and the potpourri symphony of marching bands blaring of ambulances, fire trucks, and the EXTRAordinary impatience of horn blaring taxis up and down York Ave., dropping off patients 24-7 at a laundry list of  "specialized" Hospitals with "views of the river in every room"

I miss the quietude noises of summer breezes tickling minds, trees frothing a
cappucino sun heated breeze to stir the blush and rush of words forming faster than the mind can absorb;

alas, alas, this same mind can never fully squeeze out the sins of memories of winter's travails and yet, the mere suggestion of my old friends embracing me, sun, wind, green landscapes, sea and land animals coming to greet the human interlopers makes me all stirred up, like watching white milk in black coffee spread its cooling affection and lightening the black; aerate and mixing the perptual continuum of my ever slowly chilling bloodstream streaming to mind
                               and I sigh, for many reasons...but in my heart, I am, and remain, forever a summer man...
aerate and mix and I sigh, for many reasons...

Absent brain surgery, the mind wanders following the sun's trajectory, wither?