Just The Way You Are

For the ones who think they are broken.

You are beautiful.

Just the way you are.



I couldn’t possibly know who I am.

I’m so many things, places, people, feelings: it would be impossible to really say.

Who I am, that is.

The question of who I want to become also seems pointless.

I want to become whoever I become.

I want to feel, and know, and see life from every angle—

to chase the wind as it takes me.

Who I am now is soft,

is gentle,

is wild,

is alive,

is both free and caged,

all at the same time. 

The wind of me never stops at one station, only.

I am a woman; passionate, creative, strange.

A woman.

Beautiful, kind, ugly, horrible.

I couldn’t possibly know who I am;

I never stay the same.

I never will stay the same.

woman in the back of a van looking at mountains
Photo by Alex Azabache on




Dear Heart

Dear heart,

thank you.

For singing to me

the beauty of my soul.

And having me believe

every sweet sound of it.


Who I Am

Do not tell me to be another version of me.

That I should be everything a lady should be, that I must grasp a handful of gravel without leaving a crumbling trail of dust behind.

I am human.

Dust, I know, will always fall.

And so I will take the gravel, and hold it as I do. See me. Watch with curiosity the hand that scoops and claims the fragile dust of the earth like no other.

For I am who I am.

I am. Who I am.



What do you want me to be?

I can be that, for a moment, a day

a lifetime;

I can be your sun.

Shining in all the places that make


feel more,

and me

feel less

than the blazing fire

that I am.


Tell It To The Moon

Tell my heart to the moon.

Tell it all the love songs,

and all the pretty little hours that have moved me.

Tell it a smile.

Tell it wisdom, tell it grace, peace, joy and fun.

For if ever my sun begins to fade,

tell the moon to remind me.

It’s time, now, to shine.


Let Them Laugh

‘Let them laugh!’ they giggled,

as they hitched their skirts up

and danced with the wind.


Begging To Be Set Free

To think.

Of all the passion I caged

to feed an illusion:

that others judgements

mattered more

than the heart magic

that was begging to be set free.


To The Moon

I am brave.

And I am beautiful.

And I will not waver in my belief

that I am capable of making it

to the moon.

And back.

Or just to the moon.



The Sunflower

She was the Sunflower

spending her days among lions,

wondering why she couldn’t roar like them.

Now she understands.

Sunflowers don’t roar.

They raise their heads to the breeze.

And they shine.