At my very core
am I as human
as I was promised
to be?

Flowers grow between my ribs,
and in the cracks of my mind.
While those around me call it beautiful,
it is getting hard to breathe.

Who am I?
But a collection of sounds in colors?
Of tastes in scents?
Of misery in delight?

I am nothing but the shadow
of good times
and there
lost files.

I woke up to the sound
of moon on my skin
and velvet on my lips.

The scent of pine cones
will always
smell like
a memory I lost
long ago
of home.

She was moonlit skin
wrapped in the silence of the night
with dew drops for eyes
and a soul
made of wet earth.

Sometimes I feel as though
writing poetry
is like throwing scraps at the dogs.
Have I satisfied my mind's hunger to write?
Not until
I can say
that I've written
with pride.
For the only way to be full
is to be brave enough
to swallow
my own
words.

Do I write for an audience
or for myself.
There is a struggle
to distinguish between
the voices of critics
in my head
and my voice
of reason.