You May Be

by Darryl Price

beautiful, but you don't own beauty. You may 
be sexy, but you don't own desire. You 
may be smart, but you don't own wisdom. 
You may be good and kind, but you 

don't own love. You may like trees, but 
you don't own the forest. You may like 
to swim, but you don't own the ocean. 
You may be a poet, but you don't 

own inspiration. You may be quite capable, but 
you don't own how and when healing works 
for others. You may see and talk to 
ascended Angels in your meditations, but you don't 

own any part of heaven. You may be
a survivor of fear and hatred, but you 
don't own courage. You may be broken-
hearted, but you don't own sadness. You may

be cynical as hell, but you don't own 
dreaming of something better for yourself and your 
loved ones. You may be alluring, but you 
don't own attraction. You may be strong, but 

you do not own perseverance. You may be
unique, but you don't own originality. You may
like to read, have good taste in books, 
but you don't own the only library. You 

are not the only librarian. You may like
clouds, but you don't own the sky. You 
may like to make wishes, but you don't 
own need. Or want. You may like to

make me shut up now, but you don't 
own me. You may like your own mind, 
your own take on things, better, but you 
don't own my thoughts, which are with you. 

Bonus poems:

To Fly

by Darryl Price

Where you belong is where you are, 
simply because there you are. It 
may be unfair, but you can't live 
somebody else's life. We don't 
like to talk about it, because 
it means that eventually 
leaving everyone, everything 
without one exception. Where you 

belong is not to forget, where 
you belong is happening now. 
It may be unfair, but there will 
always be warm movements to heal 
and carry you on. Because home 
is always at the center of 
goodbye. No one wants to hear this. 
That's why poets are often burned 

at the stake, driven into the 
dark sea of despair. So sorry, 
Virginia the Woolf. Where you 
belong is where you try something 
new. It may be frightening, most 
things are, but you were the one who 
broke down to pieces the lovely 
moment between us. I'm here. Hi. 

Hello. Sometimes I wish I weren't, 
then I wouldn't have to know how 
you chose to ignore the problem 
two hearts can make as one. Where you 
belong is however far you 
get to before you disappear. 
It may be unkind, but you lied 
and I let you feel nothing for 

it. Where you belong is not where 
all the faithful are winning. Give 
us a break. It may be foolish 
of me, but I'm so tired of not 
laughing with you. Where you belong 
is where things are alright even 
when they're not perfect. It may be 
I'm leaving on the wings of a 

worried dove. It may be just a final 
true breath of dreaming. But oh I really 
wanted you to know these few songs from 
the garden. Where you belong we
have not forsaken ancestors
for modern conveniences. 
It's early spring. It may be a 
good place to get lost in the rain.     

Half the Words

by Darryl Price

are gone. You didn't have to keep them flying, but you could
have put them down more tenderly. Birds are singing. I very much 
like the sound. Someone told me that birds are losing the memory 
of their songs. Can you imagine a forest full of silent birds?
We know now that trees do actually talk to one another, through 
roots and wind and leaves. Through water and bugs. Like all families 
they nurture each other, especially the young. We murder them all the 
freaking time without a thought for their feelings, same as we do 

with elephants. We want to use parts of their bodies to make 
some transitory money. We are a greedy bunch. Heartless. Cruel. Look how 
our leaders pretend to look the other way. No wonder aliens don't 
want to be seen out in the open. They probably get dire

warnings from whatever universal council they belong to: stay away, as far 
away as possible, from that planet. They shoot each other every day 
down there. Completely innocent people are mowed down at an alarming rate. 
And their leaders shut their doors and hide inside alcohol bottles. Yeah, 

so half the words are meaningless because no one reads them with 
an open mind any more, much less an open heart. Words are 
whatever you make of them. Make some empathy. Make some compassion. Stop
making them accuse us of everything wrong with ourselves. And if you 

don't make anything of them, someone else will. Therein lies the danger 
of refusing the gift of music as it is given. After the
initial experience it becomes a soft memory, neatly stored in your nerves 
and your brain like strands of a rope hanging down from a 

tree house. So half the words are extinct. Whether you smoked them 
or not. Your story is being eaten alive. Unless you invent more 
words to be fully present and alive with, no matter the circumstances. 
Words that mean what you mean to say. Words that come to 

the rescue. Even if you're the saddest person on the planet. Words 
can help you discover and recover your inner creative person But you 
already know that, don't you? Somewhere along the line someone's words reminded
you of this power, this potential within you to greet the new 

days with chosen words of love. I chose these for you because 
you are my friend and you deserve the best words I can 
come up with at this time. That's about it. Everything else is 
just somebody pushing the repeat button. Hope you have a pleasant Spring.