here is a journal page for pieces of art that might inspire you the way they inspire me. 
 thank you for taking the time to bask in their beauty.

the moon

Night haikuThe moon comforts a wave
Before its impending death
Upon the shore<da:thumb id="216212575"/> OrbitsI am the moon and you are my sun king
Dancing on opposite ends of the horizon
Spinning in orbit
But
Never
Quite
Touching
You are burning up
And I am so very pale The AstronautWhen I think I've forgotten my
frailty, it comes to mind that
at eight or nine I nearly
killed myself in a public pool.  One
moment was plain.  Innocent.  I was
hovering through the shallow end
like an astronaut on the moon, feeling
the August sun blanket my
little wet head.  I did the silliest
thing:  I space-walked right into
the deep end, where the water
went over top, and even though
the shallows were close I became
lost and disoriented and began to drown.
Somehow the way my body felt -
the way my heart raced while gasping
for air, the chlorine in my nose, and
the wetness in my lungs - it all
comes to mind when I catch myself
forgetting that human bodies
are flimsy sacks of blood and bone.  
The cliches are true, you know.  Life
flashes before your eyes, and thoughts
go through your head like "This
is it.  I'm going to die."  I remember that
there was a moment of clarity
while beginning to los

Awake For The SunriseI despise every solemn sunrise spent without you,
the pink flesh of sunburned skies peeling away
and resting in my bloodshot eyes that say
I will cry before it rains and the sun
will always be more bright than our future.
But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try,
because the moon loves the stars enough
to be with them at least once a day.
The way rain clouds ploughed their way
into yesterday and tomorrow reminds me
of the time I asked why you were crying
and you told me "Today won't last forever."
So my heart broke
like it had no other options;
a water-filled jar being frozen
and there just wasn't enough space
left in my chest for air. a room on the moonshe stares at the wall and watches the paint
peel, but not dry, not exactly,
and gives the sun a moment to reassess
his argument;
"my father was never in a place
to read me stories,
and he
is sorry -"
---
and she wonders if it is so terrible
that she cannot write about herself
without lying, without burning up the edges
so she can feel a little more
alive;
all the stories her father didn't tell her
have come up anyway, on her arms and on
her eyelids and where the carpet
is coming up -
and she is afraid that she will never feel much more
than like a wooden doll on a shelf,
but she keeps
watching
so the paint
keeps chipping. Joey had a smoke and burned the moon downOne night on a long road trip to Nebraska
The skies opened up and bled onto my pupils
And the taste of gin burned my throat
As my star strewn spine strained against
The static of the radio blasting from your car stereo
We chased god
Only to find kerosene angels
And glow flies hanging from tree tops

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(17) handpicked: internet and television

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