for my mom
(2014)
My mom is not dead, this was a writing prompt from a workshop I went to. It was great practice. I encourage you to try it: write a haiku about what you would say to a loved one while they are on their death bed.
My breath was in my mind Focus on breathing Quickly leads to thinking Hot fire Over-stimuli
Perhaps my greatest fear... the inability to unconditionally l… myself and others, including the world. Circumstances and situations
Earning my stripes and loving it. The mysteries in life can remain just that: unknown,
I am the victim because I think I am. Others see me as weak because I see myself as weak. Perceptions leaking
Melting, melting, my barriers are… old beliefs formed as a child begi… as truth comes forth to replace th… I move past this victim role & beg… I express gratitude for your prese…
Like fire I’ll spark passion within your hea… alive and bright! Like water I’ll rinse you of insecurity and f…
The winter months are coming the cold welcomes in darkness the days get shorter and light starts to fade. This is a familiar place
Whoa! Is this happening? Awareness of fear to the point of… Realizing limitations and their im… The mind can be a concrete wall
I write because my head gets cramm… Then I continue to write because… Where is all this coming from? What more is there? What happens when I stop taking t…
Goddess: I’ve admired you from afar; intrigued by what my eyes see and how my heart feels.
When spirits are low and insecurit… Never doubt the power of the mind! my vices are nowhere to be found..… I inhale and pause, as I taste so… and feel color.
What terrifies me most is what I’m made of. A personal trauma-filled past and the accumulated karma of centuries of manipulation and d…
Scribbles Unintentional Manipulated Panic The classroom door slams shut. Silence makes the chair screech The American flag never looked so…
Oh, how the almighty have fallen because they have sadly forgotten that the higher the tower, that insatiable desire for power; the more unstable it becomes,
James, my son, rusty vans perch in longing Don’t lack like them