Dear human, it is already late. Where have you been? All the other flowers in the garden have already started blooming. But wait, hold on—do not despair. Do not be too quick to self-loathing, self-pity and self-hate. See this moment instead as an opportunity to see your most powerful blessing—the wisdom of knowing who you truly are at the root of all your patience and suffering. For it is in that moment when you truly know who you are can you then understand the courage it will take for you to bloom towards what you truly desire.



when you bloom
doesn’t define who you are.

a person can bloom
at the age of 17, 35 or 73 and still 
be left empty,
not good enough,
and wanting for more.

my darling, 
carefully listen to these words:

‘where you bloom
is what truly defines who you are.’

that place in your life 
where there is an abundance of joy.

that place in your life
where there is a handful of purpose.

you can bloom in kindness.

you can bloom in service 
to a cause that you truly believe
will make this world a much better place.

you can bloom in friendship
and you can bloom in the truth which is 
that from the very first day god planted you into 
this planet you were already made beautiful and whole.

it was simply the day 
that something or someone made you feel like 
life is a race that persuaded you into thinking otherwise.

christmas feelings


my humans are smiling


as they unwrap their gifts

and say the words

“thank you”

“i love you”

“god bless”

and lastly the words

“merry christmas”


we’re all under the same

broken moon

but the flowers in me are happy

at last.

A Funeral In My Heart


Loneliness is having a party
in my mind again and that’s okay.

I am surrounded 
by souls.

Some treat me like
sunlight and some treat me like

I cry myself to sleep
and no one knows that the truth
about loneliness is that it protects
ones heart from everything but itself.

There’s a funeral in my heart, 
and the casket is too small for my
childish soul that screams ‘Let me out!’

I want to live without thinking
about who will miss me when I’m gone
because I’m tired of writing all these goodbye
letters that mean nothing without a recipient.

There’s a funeral in my heart
and there are no flowers because 
nobody wants to give flowers to a suicide.

I wish I can say sorry for being 
so selfish but that would mean apologizing
for the nights I’ve tried to hold it all together
like rebuilding Rome for a day—I have nothing to say.

There’s a funeral in my heart
and I am all alone here with the lights closed
because the window might glow and I am not light.

I am not light.