How is a dare
the antonym of a truth?
Truth be told,
placing your actions
in the hands and minds
of another is a risk,
but it is one that
at some point in time
we all take.
Love is based
on trust, but it is only
when we dare
to trust that the
bond is born because
before it was just
an idea.
Now it is an act.
Love’s transitive
definition begs the
do you dare to love?





Because you need to.

Because you don’t think you have time.

Because we move too quickly.

Because you are moving in the wrong direction.

Because you will need to remember this moment.

Because regret.

Because time never stops.

Because you can stop time.

Because your thoughts need a moment.

Because your heart can’t take it.

Because you’re acting irrationally.

Because you’re acting rationally.

Because you can’t believe this.

Because you knew this would happen.

Because it’s over.

Because it’s just beginning.

Because you are lost.

Because you are found.

Because you need to process.

Because you need to act.

Because that’s a bad idea.

Because that’s your best idea yet.

Because yesterday is over.

Because tomorrow is almost here.

Because you won’t get another chance.

Because maybe that wasn’t your path.

Because you’re losing control.

Because you have the ability to gain control.

Because rewinding is impossible,

and fast forward is a sci-fi dream.

But pause is possible,

so hit the double line button;

give yourself a moment

and pause.


No boundaries.

The unexpected,
but still graphed.
Not included
in conclusions of
the study,
but a reminder that
the study is

The unexplainable,
so completely avoided.
Deemed outside
of the
A glaring scientific
piece of evidence
highlighting the
gaps in science.

The undeterred,
for the very reason
of their location.
Immovable and
irreplaceable within
the makeup of society.
A representation
of what cannot
be duplicated.

No boundaries.




My favorite season is autumn,
a live show of a scientific system 

in a series of colors from a prism.

My attention is held in their prison.

Life’s transformation trapped in a leaf;

daily the browns progress and greens retreat.

My fascination is not in their death;

I instead admire their attempt to infect

as they float away from their home 

leaving behind a life of what they know.

The leaves accept influence on their path down to earth 

blowing whichever way the wind blows them they surf 

embracing the undefined journey ahead.

I obsess in their abandonment of being fed 

watching as they focus more on leaving their mark,

finding a way to epically impart. 

A leaf imprints its identity for us to see,

a message to us that it is with change we will be free

because a leaf reflects an ongoing cycle 

Of starting over, a new chapter, a new title.

But we must be intentionally aware,

act with sincerity in the manner in which we share 

our life story can be altered at any time.

Each fall the leaves comfort us that we will be just fine.

Remember that you write your own destiny,

so act true to yourself and define your own legacy.



“It’ll be okay”,
they said.
“He’s in a better
place now”,
they claimed.
“Just give it
they advised.

Why do they
try to speed up
the grieving process?
Like it’s some

“It’ll be okay”,
as if not being okay
is wrong.
We tiptoe around
the obvious negative
aspects of life,
and for what?
Temporary comfort
in a moment of otherwise
awk ward ness?
Death is the sibling
of life.
The “troubled” one.
The “black sheep”
of the family.
We are conditioned
to avoid death
and all it’s characteristics.

“He’s in a better
place now”,
as if I don’t know that.
But I am not there,
and that is the problem.
The gapping gap
established between
heaven and our world
creates the misperception
of loss.
We blame death
for the separation
because we are geared
to require a scapegoat.
We ignore the one
who started this process
we call life, birth.

“Just give it time”,
a facade of a
This idea that
promotes waiting for
wounds to close,
scab over, flake off,
And all you have to do
is wait.
Just wait.
Missing the detail
of your involvement
because we would
rather avoid the thought
that we must
initiate our process.

Grief is growth
masked in tragedy.
Ownership is required
for one to truly


Home away from home


Ecuador’s land folds into itself like origami.
Covered in an overwhelming greenery tsunami,
the natural beauty swallows your heart entirely
as you search for the next wave to see
peering behind each fold and smooth crease.
It exhales with a cool eastern wind
that sounds like your life changing from within.
Noises of friendly warning honks as we wind around mountain sides;
Ecuadorian music bouncing us with the beats throughout the ride.

This experience is like simultaneously falling head first and jumping feet first.

I saw a tree straight out of The Lion King.
I hugged a little girl whose smile could sing.
I saw mountainside green houses that make your house look like a monopoly piece.
And houses without doors and with dirt floors crying out for relief.
I saw excitement as the children sprinted yelling “gringos and gringas”,
and an elderly woman balancing a barrel on her head as she says “buenos dias”.
I saw dirt roads zig zag up the mountains defying laws of gravity,
and crop fields, waterfalls, and hope that top our purple mountain majesty.

This experience is like simultaneously falling head first and jumping feet first.

Patches of emerald fields greener than the greed of the American dollar.
Sown together by the sturdy stitches of the indigenous culture.
Sky scraping tree tunnels direct you between villages and cities
tempting you to explore from Quito to Pusir Grande to Cotacachi.
The breath taking views of each steep cliff tells a narrative.
My eyes cannot consume enough for there is no comparative;
no setting satisfies the hunger of my ojos like Ecuador-
its vegetation begs to be Dora the explored.

This experience is like simultaneously falling head first and jumping feet first.

I served as a play mate, interviewer, hand holder, hugger, and jungle gym.
A 16 year-old said restoring his villages’ culture matters most to him.
An 11 year-old I met at 10 melted into innocence as I remembered her name.
A 17 year-old told me after this trip he would never be the same.
An 8 year-old mastered my childhood version of patty cake.
A 23 year-old faced the reality of the differences his company will make.
A 16 year-old explained her desire to become something like a nurse.
A 25 year-old realized that there truly is a place for all of us in the universe.

This experience is like simultaneously falling head first and jumping feet first.

So what are you waiting for?

Crayola Days


I am a woman of no skin color;
my ethnicity – my own.
Looked down upon as a minority
because I refuse to fall face
and conform.
The majority claims to inform,
but all my life all they’ve
done is distort
because they thrive
on static and gray.
Noticing this back
in my pre-school days.
Memories with my schoolmates
playing with play-dough;
I don’t remember their
skin color though.
See, back then
I was a kaleidoscope
full of hope and ease.
Everything was colorful
and my world free.
I saw colors
of Purple-Mountain-Majesty.
Not yet been introduced
to the rules of society.
Grew up in the suburbs
where actions of change
are never heard,
and the skin color
white is preferred.
The masses colorblind,
and inside I could never
why they didn’t
see the sun as
Laser Lemon.
Scared of change
because in Suburbia it’s
Instead, they live
in shades of black and white.
In a Rose Art box
you can find them.
Not me.
I have chosen
to live in my own
colorful sea because
what’s life without
Macaroni and Cheese?
My mind-set
of those pre-school days
inspires me to explore
my race.
I define myself
for me.
Color is what
I love to see
mixing and blending
I am a woman
of no one skin color.
I am rare.