it was the kind of moonthat I would want to send back to my ancestorsand gift to my descendantsso they know that I too,have been bruised...by beauty.

..i spill intothe kind of silenceonly Khalil Gibran would understand.

There is somethingmystically sadand beautifulabouthowi will neversee youagainbut meet youagain and againin poetry.

what ismore beautifultears, in someone’s eyesfor meor in my eyesfor them.

Sometimesthe things that make you cryare more beautifulthan the thingsthat make you laugh.

violent storms. and beautiful smiles. both have electricity. both are equally destructive in nature.

we are all like poems. some of us rhyme. some don’t. some are Pulitzer prizessome are just scribblesand yet, we all possessa special kind of beautythat can either heal or cut to the boneone that can never quitebe fathomed, nor forgotten.