There was a time where I'd look in the mirror and saw pain, a heart that was used in vain...I saw someone who visited and wanted to stay. From every angle I saw that she was battered, betrayed, alone and scarred, her heart was cold and hard.

I lived a thousand lives, a woman who was crumbling yet a fighter inside, a beauty who stood out and a part from a world so deadly, but she had her ashes, her own past to bury.

She was me, I refuse to play victim by the hands of criminals, who tested my whole being, my existence spoke words and I stood for what I believed in, and a kept woman broke away, she prevailed.

S.B

The moon rose,
    and collected
    like dust
    on the back of his
                                    neck.

Somedays I don't feel like writing
and it worries me because
'Writers write everday --
real ones, at least.'
I fear being ordinary,
which is tasteless because
maybe being ordinary
is what I need.

The appeal of snapbacks
and hipster haircuts
is starting to make more sense.
Blending into a crowd
might suit me better;
to be invisible but
to no longer be insecure.

Rap lyrics make more sense,
even though I can't relate;
these words are my sedation,
these clothes aren't armor
but marketable camouflage.
My words have been said before,
but that might be okay because
I'd hate to torment myself
wondering about my relevance.

So, to move on, I write,
and I write, and I write
to pander and to conform.
Substituting thought for
appealing diction and
strong imagery, afraid
to show myself because
maybe you're too much
like me, which, surely,
would eat me alive.