I want to know my morals, my faith, my devotion- but I’m not motivated to discover it, not driven to learn the possibilities to what my passion, soul, and spirit can hold. 

I work with a girl who I admire. She knows herself. She knows who she is, what she stands for, how she wants to live her life, and moreover – what her ideals are, where they came from, and how they can be strengthened. I want to be like her, I want to be assured that in times of crisis, I have a foundation of myself to stand on. 

I know this is not a question of faith or religion. My outlook on faith is that it is a personal relationship with yourself and your idea of a higher being. Religion and/or denomination, be it Catholic, Buddhist, Shamanism, hold the same underlying principle in my mind- hope and faith in something greater than ourselves. While faith is personal, I believe religion/denomination is a community relationship between individuals and their faith. Perhaps this is where my crisis lies.  

Spiritually I am void of any education and therefore lack the knowledge to concrete my beliefs and principles. I stray away from structured practices which could education me, since faith for me is a personal experience, and intimate experience, and often a solitary one. Therefore, I have confidence in the strength of capacity of my faith, but lack the knowledge in how I should practice/live it.

Perhaps this is an expected crossroad to come to in ones life. When you reach the point where you’re deciding what standards of moral/faith/spirit you’re going to hold yourself responsible for, it’s important that you discover a set which that is personal to you- not what you’ve grown up with, not what you’ve been taught is right or wrong, but yet an individual set of standards. Moreover, the value of these silos may not be in the strength of their distinction, but yet the path you take in discovering their existence, and the engery in which you exert to make them integrated into your life.

I sit here, slightly chilled, on my bed. The window is open just a crack, and the smell of presnow air fills my room, brushing against my bare arms causing them to react.Silence is through my apartment, except for the soft purr of my cat beside me. I can’t help but smile as I look at her, stretched out beside me, her grey fur completely absorbing her tiny frame. Two black sleepy eyes watch me through a mass of fluff as I rub her belly gently, causing an instant reaction of toe curling.

I sit back in my bed, pulling the covers over my feet, listening now to the traffic outside my room. I can hear the crows flocking together communicating in an elaborate code of kaws and aws, their constant bickering tells me that a storm is on it’s way. Perhaps they are preparing for it themselves. Their secret navigation, compass or sense warns them of the incoming weather, reminding them once again that nature owns them.

As I straighten up to look out the window, I notice the snow already moving in across the water. The normally visable docks across our harbour are slightly blurred by a cloud of white. The foghorn reminds me that it’s snow, snow moving across to fall on us. The dark grey water mirrors the grey sky, as the snow gets denser encompassing any knowledge of the previous dark green land, and joining both the sky and bay together. The sound of the foghorn is more frequent, mixing with the bells and horns of the incoming fishing boats. A beautiful song which I hope I never forget.

I stretch sleeply,although I’ve been up for an hour the atmosphere of the day pulls me back into a lazy haze. The thoughts of leaving my castle of cotton and feathers is absent, although I know that I must in time. I lay my warm cheek against my soft pillow, being refreshed by it’s coolness, it’s scent of winter. My eyes are drawn to my curtains, a river of red dances by my window frame, only then do I notice…notice the beginnings of snow falling gently into my room

The curves,
the hips,
the pouty lips,
the nose,
the chin,
the soul within.
The hidden beauty,
the unseen child,
the mask she wears,
with every smile.
She’s perfect,
she’s pretty,
she’s cute,
and petite,
she’s scared,
she’s young,
she’s perfectly incomplete.
The self she hides,
behind her face,
the woman inside,
the one yet to escape.
The secret desires,
the wishes to die,
the life she lives,
the hole inside.
She may look happy,
the absolute life,
but what really exsists,
are only lies.
She hates what she sees,
her hair,
and her teeth,
she can’t stand that smile,
her tighs,
or her feet.
We see a beauty,
she sees a beast,
she wants to be free,
to be perfect,
complete.
We hate what she has,
she hates what she sees,
she wants to be different,
just like you and me.

The sky is empty except for coloured skews

My destination reaches my longing view

Homes of comfort, a visage of forest

The stars encompass like a praying chorus

Tiny lights of hope and fervor

Shepard fear amongst the conductor

My feet upon the lonely shore

I embrace the radiance, an aromatic cure

Approaching now, upon my window

I meander pass my deprived and shallow

I knock upon my empty door

And greet myself with my new sanguine floor

From toe to head I feel it rise,

And at last my self has arrived.

Once, once you were like me,
Twice, twice you came to me,
The third time, I told you to let me be.

Forgive my heart,
These hands you held,
The looks of faith,
My mouth you felt.

Once, once you touched me,
Twice, twice you held me,
The third time, I told you to kiss me.

Savior come,
Repent my sins,
Refresh my hope,
Let me live.

Once I cared,
Twice I cried,
No more numbers,
Just love by my side.

A serious case of introspection
A fragile moment of unclear clarity
A luscious sense of timing with impeccable taste
A silent aged whine, one might say.

Rethinking
Recalculating
Readministering

Army fatigues adorn my limbs
Solid armour clothe my soul
Amoungst the battlefield
Between my soldiers
I must go.

Microphone. Saxophone. Monotone.
She sings with blissfully sewn lips.
Silence. It erupts, amongst the quiet noise.
She calls out.
For help? Joy? Pleasure?
The operator!
She screams for mercy from her self inflicted pain.
“Information?”
“Please hold.”
Awaiting the rebuttal,
She questions once again,
And with one swell swoop she snares the screech.
And hangs up the microphone.

“noodles?”
“no.”
Two men converse.
Their faces, contorting. Nostrils flaring. Eyes glaring.
An air of temptation.
They sit in a shabby, scantily clad room.
The walls adorned with cheap plaster figurines of the Mother Mary.
The hum of a dirty shampoo cousin sings in the background.
“a mop?”
One man says to the other.
His eyes bulge like a pubescent boy, “aha! You‘re right”.
They ease back into their iron thrones, stroking their layered chins.
They eye it.
From toe to foot, knee to elbow.
Their eyes meet it.
Glass, blue, shiny, reflective.
It’s creamy skin tempts them like solidified morphine.
Her dress, hand made, tailor, original circa 1920, English Butler collection.
One of them, the plumper of the two eases forward, brushing back the tender
Faux locks in a seductive way.
“the perfect mop, for the perfect head.”