the mist of my voice
lays gently on the cold window
the sun is yet to shine
as i leave my comfort behind
still warm and fetal beneath
duck down doona's

i tell the house goodbye
and that i will return, anon.
and step forth into the frozen dew
sparkling on the winter faded lawn

once in the car, I sigh with deep breath
this is something that needs be done
but my heart falters at leaving the nest

for it is away i must go, to find some rest
it is to leave in order to stay, to be my my best
each year i take this small season of me
each year i go... go be alone in order to hone
my mind and shed dark blue barnacles
so upon my return my boat runs smooth
through river and wave, calm and typhoon

i retreat from this world and this world from me
i go find a place full of water and tree
and there i sit and sleep and walk,
very little do I talk, i do not perform
or  teach, i do not quest or overreach

i am but pebble in a river,
the water, washes and reforms me
i am but budding leaf, on tree
the sun energises me

I am snail, content,
within my fragile shell

I am quiescent, within my soul

At dusk I hang up
a worn blue work
shirt that smells
strongly of love
of dirt of the earth
melancholy, sweat
yesterday's brews
the blues, regret
twenty cigarettes
black breath
of the bone moth
old blood, moon dust
spring pollen, summer
grass, Autumnal ****
winter's cold blast
sea salt and pine needles
mountain laurel, desert air
my dog's hair, I swear
I can't bear the thought
of washing or throwing away
all the stains, the growing pains
the laughter, the sorrows
these history lessons I need
to get me through tomorrow.

I'm trying to be the rhyming Queen
This is the only poem I know from bone to skin
Is writing a poem all about rhyming?
There must be other something?

I want to know...
Are my words worthy to be called poems?
I only write words that I saw
And I see words as gems

I'm still an amateur
To translate my emotions to words
But I can,
Just wish me luck.

The scattered people outside
The boring noise inside the house
The four sides of my room
And the me who is tired to all of it

As a child,daughther and sister
I'm ready to throw it all
Just to be able to leave in this place
I am tired to all of this

I feel locked in
Even if I want, I can't do anything
Everything in here bores me
A bored feeling that slowly becomes a hatred

I don't want to hate all of you
But you are making me to
Maybe is it because of me?
Or everything happened that involves me?

I'm not being a brat
But I always feel sad
In this house, I don't feel belong
Maybe because the responsibilities are shouting at me?

"You can't escape"
They always told me
But I can
I'll find an another way.

I just want a quiet place
That only me and me will feel safe.

I haven't seen
So many angels
Hiding
In the clouds
Since John died.

They seem to be
Equipped for war.

Necesito
Todo
Los angeles.

My heart is heavy.

long hair cut short.
apology after apology.
jackets often worn,
if not, sweaters or
long-sleeved tops.
anti-social,
not because
i hate people,
but i fear they hate me.
isolation in my bed,
sometimes,
panic attacks
in the bathroom.
constant overthinking,
whether 3 am or 3 pm.
scribbles thoughts
into poems,
but hides them.
pushes away,
even though i want
to pull them closer.

Some girls
Have butterflies
Beautiful winged elegance
Flying through their cerebrums

Me?

I've got old ghosts
That turn into whiskey drunk monsters
Saying
"I should put a bullet
In your brain".

I saw him yesterday.
Standing in front of me.
Blowing his brains out
Over and over.

A movie stuck on repeat
In my brain.

And some small part
Of me
Hopes he does it.
So he doesn't come after me
Anymore.

Maybe
The monster is me.