Early mornings were always booked
for me and my dad had the world at our hands
when the sun was still young and rich of color.
He taught me how to make eggs rich of flavor
taught how the early bird gets the worm
taught me that there was a sincere loudness
in the silence of the morning.
The world mourning another night passed
another day ready to break open like an egg
and sizzle with the spice of life.

I have good days
and bad days
and I'm lost in between.
Chaos took me by my hand
like it was his own
just to watch me
**** my dreams.

The world’s light filters through my eyes
as the pitter-patter of rain draws on my window.
Looking to view the world I know well,
I find a river tracing over the edges
of something I once knew
filling me with Déjà vu.
Nostalgia becomes the only energy
worthy to have flowing through my body.
Thinking of the days I didn’t need
an endless river to free my time
because I was seven or eleven
and the world seemed so free.
Now I’m an eighteen year old me
and I miss the days that would now
feel like a sweet sweet release.

I get lost in my own words
don’t know where I end and the character begins.
Writing to keep the ink from spilling
the blood in my veins flowing.
Wishing that time would start slowing.
There is so much to do
so much time to sleep
so much time to fill
knowing that it is time to
replace the silence
and speak the truth.

Loneliness
creeps in at night
whispering sweet nothings
asking me why I cry
asking me why I’m cold
asking where my heart went.
Welcoming him back
because he’s all I’ve had
my only consistency
I hold open the covers
inviting him in.
Joining me in bed
he shapes himself into my curves
taking my hand
taking my love
taking me somewhere else
rather than the void of my head.
His kiss softer than the nights air.
The moon light watching
the room fill back into silence.

I'm lost in the booming thunder
and crackling wind but
staring into your eyes
I'm ready to fall into
the beauty of your moonlight.
My man in the moon, you are
such a breath taking view and
I've never been speechless before
laying in your night.
Darling, if this is the calm
I hope I'm carried away by the storm.

I never wake up
in someone else's arms
but that's okay.
I could let
loneliness devour all the happiness
flying into my window
but to allow
darkness to swallow light whole
wouldn't bring him back.

I wonder, does she
plan the presence she presents
in a room? Does she
gloat in the glow of goddesses,
frolicking in the fields of her fanfare.
Or does she
muddle in her myriad of mistakes,
borrowing the broken hearts
of her long lost lovers,
trying to understand the untold
truths that come from an unlocked mind.
I wonder, does she
hate the hollow human she’s become
trying not to succumb to her mortal mind.
I wonder.

The sand is loose and free.
Can't that be me?

While watching the summer’s sunset
he says, “I have all I need in my hand.
My world, chaos, hopes, and dreams.”
He tightens his grip against his lover’s
and I take a sip of my drink,
hoping to blur the emotions
of his dreams and my reality.
Maybe it’s the spirits in the air
or in my drink but i don’t think
this party is meant for dreams
when all I can see is that he’s not with me.

The future is looming over me
watching every step i take
waiting for my life to fade.
I never do fade.
I live in the present
living for my parents
living for my friends and
never for myself.
Healing from the past
still wearing a gas mask.
Stuck in images of my own wars
how many lives I’ve changed
for better
for worse.
He is the worst,
the ghost of the man in the mirror.
His pale skin hushed in the moonlight
eyes red as the fire in his stomach.
I'm left hoping for a future
where this ghost could be alive.

With a head to heavy to carry
I’ll empty my heart onto this page.
Hoping my words can vary
all the emotion i wish to display.
Watch me fumble and stumble over
the things ink spills so cleverly
so the rhythm of my heart
can beat all of my integrity.

So let me hold you close,
you can be my holy ghost,
I’ll pray that we can be
more than what’s seen.
I’ll add you to my scripture
and you can finally see
in the reflection of translated verses
a witch that makes god
weep at the beauty of an ink filled sea.

Healing isn’t a rapid art,
it takes time
to look your trauma in the eye
and welcome it home
but mine was already well alive
and he slept next to me in bed
like a hungry dog.

When I came out to my mother
she told me to avoid the dogs
that would come my way
but it wasn’t till I loved him
that I could see
a wolf in sheep’s clothing.