oh sunshine
  how do i tell you?
  i am flying so high
  above these clouds
  weightlessly mine

            **oh sunshine
                 how do i show you
                 the butterflies that live in me
                 my veins full of ecstasy
                 the warmth of that summer breeze

oh sunshine
  the monsoon comes closer
  and that rain is here to purify
  everything will find its place
  there is so much to see
  so little to say

             oh sunshine
                  how do i show you
                  there is so much more warmth than cold
                  these golden rays never get old
                  the grass blades sway with hope
                  there is so much more to live for

oh sunshine
  the morning is yet to come
  the dawn is where you're from
  hold my hand and let me show you
  together we'll run
  straight into the sun

i grew
from flowers.
fabric-softener petals
and twirling ivy vines
and quiet dandelions
and ever-sleeping blossoms.
i grew
from oceans.
calmly tossing water
and silent white sand
and slowly-floating seashells.
i grew
from forests.
serene unmoving trees
and soundlessly-swaying grass
and sedated sunlight beams.
i grew
from skies.
silent shooting stars
and twinkling constellations
and ever-so-slightly waning moons.
i grew
from quiet movement
i grew
from sleepy sounds
i grew
from hushed breaths.

i often feel like hollow light. If you
were to touch me, there would be
nothing but a hand passing through
a few swirling luminescent particles—
i am a ghost pretending to be human.
i admit that this is hard for me to say–
writing without wrapping words
in warmth is unsafe, risk-laden; my
fingers freeze up, unmoving,
suddenly unknowing. there are
a few moments each day when i lose
all my speech, and five, ten, fifteen
years of learning how to hold myself
together with shaky hands vanish,
swallowed like lifeboats sinking. i
would like to tell the truths buried in
my stomach—like cutting open the sky
and watching all the stars fall through
torn fabric—but each time my
words fail me, and so I will never call
myself a poet. perhaps one of the
most difficult things is writing
without metaphors—i can’t make
fear or pain or the shaky breaths
that happen after you’ve cried for too
long sound soft or lovely or like deep
ocean tremors, and now i am no longer
an artist, i am just the raw, bare soul
of a person who never quite got the
hang of stability. still i am attempting
to decipher how all these people
keep their feet on the ground, so if
you find anything for me to saw the
wings growing from my ankles off with,
let me know.

I saw it in her eyes
She was going to leave
*But she didn’t know it yet

not just water or air
could fill my body
with the gentle force
that the tides do, and
so it is with you--

not just your kiss,
your smile,
the cold of your
hands on me

just out of reach,
the same power that
brings sea to shore
is behind us, or
around us

there's vulnerability
in the way i even
think your name.

Sometimes
I find myself
rewriting poems
Changing all the words
except for
your name

Two cups of coffee and suddenly the answers are all clear to me