Poems · writing

Out Of Line

Frost bitten, love ridden

Cracked and bitter lips frame one of those smiles that keep you up at night sometimes

My coat does nothing to keep out the cold.

In this quiet kind of sadness,

I’m missing those warmer months.

A trapeze.

A shorter one from a couple months ago

Poems · writing

Disconnected Dreamscape

I lose myself so easily,

Slipping masks on that never even fit me.

Irony being in that I know now, more than ever, who I’m meant to be.

Too often, though, this surety escapes me.

A ruse, this game we play,

No two thoughts ever the same

Coexistence, a mortal flame,

Realizations hitting, too late.

We’re all the same.

Now why don’t you act your age?

Smile and rage.

Ladylike pains.

Ignore the kerosene flowing through your veins.

I need a desperate act. A heart attack accident just waiting to happen.

Sweet leaves condense underneath your tongue.

Oh whisper to me the things you would never tell anyone.

I’ll hide them under my pillow,

Dreams, fears, delusions.

I fall asleep to laughter and tears, moments collected over the years.

There are shared songs and stories—my joy, I find, has settled here

Content to rest in the times you were near.

Poems · writing

Rainfall Reminiscence

I remembered today how long its been

Since I have lived without a friend

That simple act, those secret talks

Midnight brandy hour, risky walks

Frogs and birds outside my window,

Their songs harp melodies which never change

And by their singing, every night, I’m brought back to that place again

The time in which I grew to know

Within the dark, how far I’d go

Living among early dew, stars above and moon askew,

I’d always find my way back to you.

Poems · writing


Waxing Moon

Guide me to a night in June

A memory, distraction so sweet

May cannot come too soon.

Tears crack rivulets into skin

The salt water begging to wash upon every wound

A genuineness in its violence

Love as an act of defiance,

Where does it leave you?

A broken heart, this crippled tune.

Skipping beats, rhythm undone,

No longer aligned, the war is won.

I spark and these words ignite,

Setting alight flames inside this washed up soul of mine.

Hope is something I’ve indulged in,

And nothing has left more scars.


New Words

I remember I used to watch the water evaporate on the asphalt behind my house.

I had just learned about the water cycle, and I was fascinated by the whole process. 

I didn’t understand how the sun, something so far away, could have significant impact on our earth. 

To me, it was no more than a giant lamp in the sky.  But now, it lent a new perspective to summer days spent swimming in steaming jungle sidewalks, as water from the garden hose left almost as soon as it touched down, being thrown into the air. 
I had never thought about exactly why the pools of water turned warm, or where they went once our little ocean was gone. It was just something that happened. 

Now, though, having a name for that process, a big name: “evaporation”. I found a new purpose. 

I studied our manmade lakes and waterfalls, a scientist taking notes, mumbling to the wind or whichever brother was nearest. 
I took exhibitions to the pool across the street, theorizing how much sunshine it would take to drain the whole thing in one go. 

I measured cups of water and poured them out to see which puddle took the longest to disappear, nodding solemnly as I jotted down the results. 

Putting a name to something will sometimes take away its magic. That is in part what helps us grow up. And, eventually, I did.

But that day, perhaps feeling the impending adulthood on my horizon, I was content to take notes on the new discovery I’d made. 

I continued to watch the water evaporate, in wispy billows, behind my house. 

Old stuff · Poems · writing

Thinking in Watercolor

My body is haphazard stitches and broken bones. Tear me to shreds, I no longer fear an injured heart. This one shattered long ago.

My skin is patchwork veins, open wounds, and I cannot keep my tongue from lolling out. Spitting, screaming, it has a will all its own.

My mind should be compared to drops of rain, pattering to the ground at random interludes of cloud and sky.

Because, like them, my thoughts fly and fall at random, never striking the same spot twice.

My feelings are composed of watercolors, bleeding into each other, until even the ignorant child who mixed them cannot tell the red from the green.


I don’t know if I personally like this one too much. I just found it in an old journal and I added a little to the beginning

Poems · writing

Who Are You, Anyway?

What does it matter if words parade around my lips

Stunningly silent, you run amiss

My teeth sprout in tidy rows they cannot articulate eccentricities

Tongues are for language as the heart is meant to beat



Beat and berate me I will stay here

Under the tidal wave of your womb I swim silent

That wasn’t me

How could it, except as a mother you need to be violent

What then, who am I to test you in your brevity

Conclusions are weak, and I am lost to her

Every night the same, dark, envy, and even now I lounge in that antiquity

I called her then, “monster”.

The name stuck.

I am victim to no one.



How many people stare at a blank page for most of their life? How many people stare at a blank page for all of their life? How many people, like me, sit casting glances at the blank page, terrified at even the thought of approaching it. How many people (also like me) sit around chatting away *about* the blank page, boasting of future endeavors and stories that they will “most definitely get to eventually, someday, when they have more ‘time’”? You *have* time! You want time you’ve got it! Right now! Instead you lay in bed for three hours hiding from everything you say you will do. There is always a blank page, and there is currently a surplus in Time, so you’re in luck! Take as much of it as you need. You don’t need a whole lot, really. It has been all but five minutes and this page isn’t so blank anymore, is it?










Let’s go down here. Fascinating. Even less blank than before.











Are you having fun breaking the rules? Feeling inspired yet? No? You can’t really tell, but this is—oh wait you can totally tell. That’s cool.







Of course who knows if stuff like this helps. I’m still in my pajamas and I have work in two hours, which I’m just going to fill with more nothing-ness.

Old stuff · Poems

Sometimes Serendipitous

Unconventionally beautiful

Accidentally wonderful

Tripping on my tongue more than my shoes

Can’t look out for myself until I look after you

Unconditional melodies

Pre-positioned tragedies

How am I to know if you’re not gonna show

Leaping to great heights was a feat undeveloped

The mechanics of that dance practiced over and over until we tire of the rhythm

Creativity becoming the glorified cliche

I wonder what they would have thought of us today

Composing poetry

A skill still unknown to me

Pluck your guitar strings and sing us a song




Poems · Uncategorized


If you could think like me I’d tell you, but I’m not sure you’re alive

I’m sifting through these memories and it takes a lot of time

Jumping to conclusions, my meter’s out of whack

Searching for that tiny thing that broke the camel’s back

I know that somewhere lies the answer, hidden with lock and key

I apologize if you’ve ever seen that other side of me

Rough hewn edges sewn together

My memory is rough

You think now you’ve figured it out, you say I’ve had enough

The truth is I’ve worn a deep rut in the circle in my brain

Climbing out of that pit, dear, will leave you right as rain

It’s the falling that is hardest, some days I need my rest

Tumbling down, down, down, until reality is stressed

You’re all around me now, and I know I look a fright

But growing up a little will help us sleep at night

Clear the monsters from underneath the bed

My face turned its way to you as it gently said

“We knew not what we are, which is to say, I can walk you home today. And if tomorrow the sun shines bright, the moon will glow all through the night. And when that evening is the same, we can do it all again”

“Diligent” she calls me, yes. I suppose that’s true

Diligent for every day I’m locked inside this room

Fighting for peace of mind, struggling against myself

I’ll leave it up to other people to put me on the shelf