My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.

I used to sing about a girl with a fire inside of her
As a kid I always craved the flames
Wanted them licking and my mind
At The very essence of who I was

I craved the heat they created
The warmth I could surround myself in
That others would run from

Now I became that girl
But my fire got out of hand
Like a forest fire all I needed was one dead branch
For my flame to devour
Till everything started to go sour
I was burning on the inside
By the flame I craved
The heat I once  controlled
Started to capture me
The warmth imprisoned my mind
Until it started to shake my body
My fire was suppose to be something i loved
Little did I know
Flames can't love you back
They just take you
All of you
Until only a shell of your self is left