today i hold
the hand of existence,
of self, of muddled
understanding, and
sight through scratched
and hot-breath-fogged
lenses caught between
sun and tsunami

i will be still through
torrential downpours
of doubt, desire, and
detriment, because i
must learn to be still
and to be soaked to
the bone with what
each storm i've born
washes over me

while skin may prune
and hold moisture, mind
and soul will hold nothing
but the breath which
never ceases to come
and go, whether in
this life or the next

to be alive is not to be
conscious, but to be
conscious is to be
truly alive

i wish to be alive
i will be alive

and all will
begin and end
with a breath

how do you draw a line
in metamorphic rock?
between self growth
and selfishness
all of the lines
become so blurry,
it's like sobriety
means absolutely
nothing.

I wish that I could
put my brain in your
skull so that you
could understand
just what kind of
mountains I have climbed
and how close I feel
to the summit.

these blurred lines and
rock giants are better
left unsaid, but that
does not mean I don't
wish that you'd ask
what I'm thinking.

My coworker speaks in idioms,
he says he's true blue, I say, yeah,
like red and white and wayward too.
People like that are a dime a dozen:
cheap, until outlived: a legend in his own mind,
always drawing out to kids.
When I speak to him, I hear his thunder,
Come again? Speak up sister! His reaction -
like a flash in a pan, because, because,
I could not listen, as the story goes, any bit  - faster.

i picture my life
as a large coloring sheet
of peonies who've just
begun to bloom,
opened to their full potential,
and withered away as
they've seen enough
sunshine to last a lifetime

a rich tapestry of color
covers just a corner, but
so much is still left blank,
just waiting for the right
colors to fill the white spaces

i want to read you
the words that spill out,
ink on whatever is closest,
but for years now
i've been writing about
***, sadness, and sensations-
all wrapped round whoever
it is that's claimed a
piece of me

what will you think
of my weaknesses
spoken aloud?
swirling around the
room, bumping into
you, waiting to
be judged

i want to show you
what begins as a breath
and ends as a tale of
twisted love, but
i'm afraid all you'll
think of is me reading
the poems i write
about you to the
next one

i thought i knew what love was,
but i only knew what someone
being in love with me felt like,
the soaring of my heart lifted
up by hands other than my own

love unrequited was a different story,
feeling always like a hand is on
the back of your head, holding
you under water until just before  
you've lost your last living breath

throwing away love is just like
throwing away a living breathing thing,
i realized this too late, and it's
impossible to rececitate something
that's been gone for weeks

loving the idea of something that
is so incredibly and indescribably
wrong for you, but wanting it anyways
depsite the rivers and valleys
you must drag yourself through
to finally arrive at the foot of a mountain

i thought i understood what it meant
to be in love, but it turns out, i don't
understand much of anything

music notes work hard
tiny hammers on my heart
pounding away at the cement case
until i feel something

i'd like to believe i've built a temple here,
but everyone knows it's just a fort of sheets
and i'm still a little girl underneath

i'd like to be cradled in the arms
of my mother, not landlocked
with my legs around yet another lover

because lovers have got nothing
to do with love, just ******* and touching
and giving up more than you've got

i feel like i've been scraped dry
bottom of the barrel and yet i'm on some
kind of natural high

an out of body experience i'll take flight
and watch as i float away
in the middle of night

a twilight escape of the fourth kind