I am a lost boy
in the guise of a dreamer,
a little girl
in the guise of a woman.
I dwell between
worlds of fantasy
and my own neurosis.
I sleep between the lines
of my favorite wordsmiths.
I indulge in my vices
and surrender to my heart.
I give love
like a match to a flame,
and leave piles of ashes
at my own two feet.
I walk through fire,
and run towards smoke.
I am a soul on stilts.
Green eyed devil walked into a bar,
on a southern summer's day.
He had a poker face
and a pisces heart,
singed wings and a look of disarray.
We played hide and seek,
until there was nowhere to hide.
I was a fish caught on a hook,
and the hook was a bass line.
Just one dose
of his cyanide lips,
and I begged him
to deliver me to evil
with his electric hips.
I said, 'Possess my body.
Baby, gyrate my soul.'
He tasted like whiskey and poetry,
he felt like rock and roll.
We made the night ours,
and the night killed the day.
We were two colliding storms,
dancing in the rain.
Oh forgive me father
for I have sinned,
but dear lord, did you see that grin?
It's funny how hell can seem just like heaven.
Being with you was like dancing in a monsoon on a sweltering Carolina summer's day. It was floating on your back in the ocean with your eyes closed. It was the buzz of babbling bumblebees in a rose garden. It was moonlight breaking through my curtains at 3am when I can’t sleep.
I pray that one day my body
will have forgotten your touch.
Along with the jarring hum
of a foreign object, searching
for a home in a locked building.
You were forged in fire long before
their warm breath ever caressed your neck,
and you will continue to engulf the world in flames
long after they have tried to extinguish your light.
My father would often say,
‘The only thing ever guaranteed is change.’
I never liked it.
When the seasons transform around you,
and the world turns, for the better or for the end, you find
being a caterpillar was the prime — filled with its humble
and wholesome beginnings.
Being a butterfly is a tough act,
you’re in constant fear of the peril of your wings wilting.
I wonder if the Moon and the Sun
are so enamored with one another...
That if they were to both constantly appear in the sky,
neither would ever wish to set.
Or are they rather more like brother and sister?
Constantly vying for the spotlight
and for the attention of Mother Earth?
When the Moon appears in the sky of day,
does she wish to steal the show?
Or simply long to see her lover,
before her kinsman arrive to settle in for nightfall,
joining hands to light up the sky
like a string of hundreds of thousands of chandeliers,
meticulously hung aloft the milky way?
Perhaps, the hues that bleed
across the stage at sunset,
are the spilled tears of the golden child.
Who must now cover her blushing face,
and bid adieu to the pearl
that ignites her life bearing flame.