The Hero

The hero of the story is rarely the martyr. They will not die with a sudden swift death. Instead the hero will live on into the present moment. They will continue living as though their heroism is finished. Does the hero really live such a simple life? After all the boxes are wrapped and the bows are tied, is there nothing more for the hero to accomplish? I am jealous of those heros and how they give of their time and effort for a single cause. But these heros live on and continue with their lives. When people see them on the street, they whisper words of bravery and confidence. Might and power defines their characters. But many times these adjectives are given by others. Is that what makes a hero great? Being defined by other generations or other people? They receive the praise with little acknowledgement of their actions. Heros in our world do not die for their cause. They do not know even how to be a hero. Do I even know how to be a hero? My heart grows heavy as people define heroism in single sentences and phrases. There is more to the hero than just words. There is more to the hero than just actions. The hero is a person. The hero can be people. But when does the hero die?

A Letter to My Inner Self

Hello, How are you? Since we are being cordial, I might as well ask, How is your mother doing? Oh right she is my mother too. But this coincidence is not the point. I wanted to write to you for two main reasons. Well maybe three but you understand that I am terrible at counting. First, I want to thank you. You have helped me through out my life. I enjoy our talks even when I am sad. You cheer me up but also give me good advice. Well at least I think so. You have given me company when no one else is present. Thanks for making me laugh and allowing me to partake in moments in unique ways. Secondly, I would like to remind you that you are a constant annoyance in my life. Yes, I care for you dearly but sometime you drive me insane. You make me question my goals and intentions. You paralyze me. This makes me sad and then I have to have you console me which makes the whole situation worse. So I want to let you know that I appreciate your efforts but I must turn to other friends. You cannot and should not be my only comforter in this life. I thank you for where you have brought me but I have out grown you. Well, not exactly because you have grown with me. So you understand how I have changed for the better. Believe me, I am a different person so don’t try those old tricks on me.

Talk soon,


Her eyelids. Coverings for the most dazzling sight.
People say that we should cover our bodies
As if there was something holy to them
But her eyes
They made me gasp and wonder
Those eyes that read my soul as I gaze in to hers
They should be covered for
Her eyes
They are far more holy
Not a looking glass but rather a still pool of water
Clear and saintly
I froze in time as
Her eyes
Blinked away covered and turned
No longer did we share sight
I knew I should not stare
Too long or at all
But it was
Her eyes
That drew me on

Little World

Her Little world
All made of glass
Not clay
Not brick
Not stone
Her little world
All made of glass
Where she named the fairies
And the dolphins sang
It was a simple world where imagination came to life
I saw this world
Her little world
All made of glass
She gave me a glimpse into her world
A treasure untold
I must keep her world from breaking
For it is only made of glass

Time Moved

My oh my
How the weeks fade to months and then
Months fade to years.
Even the sorry soul relates
I knew a man who stood the test of time
His years felt like months and
His months felt like weeks
Minutes with him moved like seconds and
I never did mind myself growing old
For the man made time move so fast
It was if time had never moved at all

Their Eyes, Her Eyes

As we moved forward through the darkness, I was only able to grasp Lana’s jacket in front of me. The fabric of her coat connected me to life as we stumbled through the cave. I realized that even though we tried to pretend that this was the right path, neither of us were certain. My heart raced faster as I heard a whistle behind us. My foot slipped on a rock and I tumbled forward. My hands pushed Lana down and both our bodies hit the rock floor with a thud. I gasped and scrambled to my hands and knees. My finger tips scanned the ground for Lana’s hand. She was my only hope for survival and I needed her for comfort. Another whistle blew, much louder than before. I stifled a scream. My hand connected with Lana’s and she squeezed it tight. I realized that tears had started to trickle down my face. In the darkness, I wished to see Lana’s comforting eyes. I prayed that time was on our side as we both recovered from the fall and started walking again. Lana moved faster than before as another whistle blew. Blindly, we kept moving through the dark passage. My heart skipped a beat as I saw a faint light come from behind me. The dim of the torch could mean only one thing. We heard another whistle, this time accompanied by voices. Lana stopped and turned to me. In the faint glow, I saw the outline of her face. The light became brighter and my heart sunk even farther. Lana’s hands grasped my own as my heart determined our ending. The light shown brighter as they started to surround us. My eyes flickered from one side to the other. I saw their eyes gleaming with hate and malice. Dark and grim. Lana cupped my face with her hands, tearing my gaze from the evil around us. Her soft gentle touch melted my fears. I stared into her eyes. The misty blue with flecks of green reminded me of home and of love. I kept me gaze fixed on her as the light engulfed us and I could no longer see.

A Lifetime

If I wrote for a lifetime, would anyone care to read? Would the great historians of the future even care to notice? Am I so vain as to think my writings would even be read? I guess so.

I guess I want to imagine my lifetime of writing has not been spent in vain. That for a moment I will live past myself. But where has this line of thinking lead me?

Only to guess at the future and forget my intentions for the present.


If I could ask you one question. I think I would ask you “What makes you smile so?”
I want to know why you are so happy and content
What makes your world so beautiful?
I see you so wonderful
There you sit
It happened again, your beautiful smile
But beauty cannot even capture how sweet the moment is.
I wonder why you smile and how life seems to roll of your shoulders
Just being close to you makes me want to smile in return
The spread of your lips with your eyes creasing in
It brightens the sun and each ray of the moon
What makes you smile so?
For this weary traveler longs to know

Each time

Every time that I stay away from writing, I find myself wandering along with each passing day. I try to convince myself that somehow, writing is a crutch and I can live without it. I walk. I run. I end up passing through the day, helplessly grasping for something that only writing can quench. I’m thirsty, hungry to share my thoughts even with just one person. I cry, weep for the fact that I have become my own stumbling block. But here I am. Back to stay? The words flow from my mind through my fingers on to the page. Here again I admit my longing to write. Each time I start to write my restless mind starts to calm.