Why bother with a title

I wish at times that there was an island 

for sad ugly girls to disappear to

As their hearts become too heavy to go on.
Then I remember that there is

And I am too much a coward to venture there.

So I’ll while away my days

And find beauty in the smallest of things.

I will fake my smiles

I will be the moon – reflecting the happiness of the world around me.

But always I will long

For that island made for sad and ugly girls.


Summer ebbs

This cool and dewy morning

Screams fall into my bones

The air so light and crisp

With clouds so swollen low

And summer is forgotten 

Though she has weeks yet till she shows

Her auburn hair and golden eyes

Autumn in her full design

The smell of clover wafting

Across sunlit open plains

Replaced by musky grasses

And the sloughs they hide from sight

Sweet summer ebbs discretely

Into her sister autumn


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.

There is a niche (in progress)

There is a niche
For men with beards
Bright blue eyes
And long brown hair

Where one could sit
Upon the shore
And never miss a sunset
Never miss a chance to fish
Never leave and never stay
For the shore stretches eternally each way.
Enough to wander
But too vast to know
With space to explore
A perfect place to call home.

There is a niche
For young men
Who are old like the moon
With souls like the trees.

Where a soft breeze blows
Music through the grass
Where silence is sweet
And the days are long.
A tidy little island of calm
In a vast cosmos of chaos
Which one could claim as their own.
A place for the heavy heart
The sleepless night
And weary hands.
To be set aside in lieu
Of the smell of sage and sweet grass
Of sunlight on your skin
And the gentle kiss of morning’s dew.

Rambling 1

I just drop-kicked the bucket called life
Cut through the noise
with a silent knife
I washed away the blood
Of every wounded stone
In rivers of wild flowers
With sunlight soap.

Nothing’s ever straight or round
Black or white
Gray or brown
We live in such narrowly defined
cages of existance
gilded in time
locked tight with guilt, or fear.

To truly look, is not to see
But to understand something
Its infinite possibilites
To touch the cool depth of it
And burn with its inner flame
To accept every flaw
as integral to individual perfection.

Pour out your bucket
let go of what you know is true.
Open your eyes and LOOK around you.
Look into me, as I look through you.