I am a creature of dirt and dust.

My body is the stem and my soul the bloom.

I am a creature of darkness and moonlight

My smile is the glow and my heart is the gentle night.

I am a creature of soft touches and deep kisses.

A whisper that starts a fire and a touch that draws cold deep water.

I am a creature both timid and bold. Straddling the razor’s edge line between desire and realism.

I am balance placed precariously.

Pride entwined with loathing.

I am perfection cast in flaws.

I am petal soft and thorn covered.

I am a creature of torrents and lightning, of a soft breeze on a warm day.

I am sunlight on skin, and ice on lips.

I am words to a song, you can’t help but forget.

I am a creature bonded to bone and tethered to the earth.


Pondering Faults

I often wonder

If I was made broken

Or if life broke me.

Are the bonds I find so firmly affixed upon my heart of my own device?

Or is each one simply a memory I can’t shake?

People say you find yourself, in those quiet times alone.

But more often than not I find a vacancy.

A place where I should rightfully be, but I am not.

In lieu are the thousands of reflections of moments. Perfect and imperfect alike.

Scattered between deep fractures.

Cracks split so deeply into the truth of me that I think I must be endless.

Was I born broken?

Or was I born to break?

Word GardenĀ 

Sometimes I don’t write anything for a long while. As if I am saving up my letters, and gathering them into a garden of words. Not until they’re ready to bloom do I have the chance to express them. As those words grow and fruit I reap the harvest of their essence. I crush them down into thick pulp and gather their dewy sweet juices. Only then may I sip their muse, and sometimes, as if a drunkard, spew it back into the world. The pulp however is a much overlooked but precious refuse. For from the crushed and broken meat of inspiration spring the seeds to start another garden. Perhaps less melancholy than my own.