a soul history is like the caligraphy of dunes
the psyche toiling its dark materials
sketching shadows from imagination
the cabaret of desire contemplating all the wonderful trivial terrible beings you can be. a wave in my mind you are
between the visible and invisible man the wisdom of the shamans

I walk on streets, I see things, I touch hands suffering from imagination deficit disorder. sometimes I have thoughts in reverse
but I cage my heart in this shrine of memory while
I am looking for you dawn by dawn, bird by bird

God or that breeze, spoke out and I could feel the caress on my young face. An intimacy only longing could tell you.

The pilgrimage, across the rocks,
along the shore,
they walk with solace.

Twilight stretches long limbs as they waltz in a line to the edge of the world,

gazing into the depths of the waters to see whatever it is they have come for.

Then the sun slips down and stars make a path for them back to that place of beginnings.

Feet and toes dipped into throws of milky waves and morning haze

and pelicans on a tiny isle,
and houses staggered over cliffs

along the shore, and seagulls drift
and hours wane, our legs yearn

to stand, to stretch, and we are swift
beneath the day, I want to burn.

i wish i was a
better daughter
for you.
i wish i knew
what it would do
to you.
i wish i wasn’t
so afraid
and i wish i never
stayed
in that orphanage
where i barely left
my crib like a
cage.

i wish i grew up
before today
because now it is
much
too late.

My faith is mine
And mine alone.

This hope,
You cannot take away.

I’ll be drained
Of each drop of blood,
You’ll drag my name
Through the cherry-stained mud,
But my soul, my soul, my soul
Is saved.

My soul, my soul,
Is saved.

I just don’t know
How to live a life
Thinking that everyone
Is bad all the time.

Everyone’s wrong,
Inherently wrong,
Ever so wrong,
Then who’s good?

Me?

No, I am far
From the best person
I know.

To believe otherwise
Would be to put myself
On a very high horse
On a very high pedestal
On a very high hill
That I am 𝘯𝘰𝘵
Willing to die on.

It’s like I’m walking
Home from school,
Counting the houses
That look the same.

It’s like I’m skipping
The cracks again,
Humming the tune
Inside of my head.

It’s like my shoe laces
Keep coming undone
No matter how much
I tie them up.

I pick at the thread
Hanging off of my sweater,
Not bothering to bend down
And double-knot.

And then when I trip,
I sit
And wonder
Why.