Watching a full moon,
trying to mend myself, meeting
the hermit of me.

A sacred promise
was made under the eyes of moon
I don't know why.

The quirk of fate?
Can you decipher the script
of unwritten oath?

you swept the ashes of winter
lit red and ****
drawn naked with smoke
and coal
still glowing
in the shadow of paper flowers
pressed to walls of plaster
and stone

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

like water
I poured myself into her until she was overflowing at the brim

like reinforced steel
I bridged my heart to hers and welded myself to her soul

like the sun
I filled myself with light to cover her darkness

like a blanket
I shielded her from the harsh world underneath the covers

like magnets
I orbited her aura until we inevitably collided

like a seed
I felt myself growing up from her

Then, like an idiot
I could tell she felt nothing.

Oh, how hard it is
to right your wrongs.

Needing perfect placement
like words in songs.

Or words in psalms.
Would you listen?

Instead of drowning
in lost visions.

As long as you know you’ve been gifted..

time to better..not just fix it.

Then your the world’s prescription.

Somewhere between night and day,
she wiggled from side to side
then pushed and stretched
until each petal was opened wide.

Painted in beauty
she's a symbol of grace
gently swaying in the breeze
planted firmly in one place.

Waiting....
              waiting
to be plucked
               and caressed
full filling
               her passions need
                         waiting…  
                                     waiting
                      in beauty's pose
with ancient secrets of old
       blinded by her sight

she is....

The Fire and Ice, Wild Rose
~