I Love.

Dancing in my underwear. So what. I’m still a rock star.
Catching up with a friend.
Relaxing in the hot tube with stars above. Or snowing. Blowing snow.
Discussing philosophy. Perhaps meaningless. Love It.
Being cheerful. Smile. Love people.
Running in a downpour. Intense soundtrack needed.
Writing poetry to radiohead.
Playing the piano while feeling especially sad.
Having a great connection with someone new ☺
Snowboarding in tree runs. Relentless… until you fall.
Kicking my dad’s ass in racquetball.
Smiling at beautiful women. Dancing with them.
Going to a tear jerker.
Create some bitchin future plans (rarely follow though, half of life is dreaming).
That feeling after my workout.
Flooring the gas pedal. Tight turns. Loud music. Make the passenger nervous.
Buying something hottt to wear.
Spending money on something unneeded and impractical.
Cleaning my room and car. Accomplished.
Missing my motorcycle.
Reading a clinically insane author.


Sprint for Sprinting

Contentedness reveals so oddly. I’ve sought it in goals and beautiful women on pedestals. Rarely, I find golden emotion.

Now I drop my goals.

My dim room waits.

My tattered mirror frames my naked body. I find a blunt grin to settle myself. Music fills the space, music to match my chemistry.

Then begins movement. My face paints joy, sex and intensity onto my mirror. My body paints an awkward, loose strength.

My calves give a heavy burn, like revolting tools. This place belongs to them as well.

Sprint for the sprinting, not for the finish.