Yes, they don't invite me to dinner
They look at me strangely
Like I'm in the zoo
And they've paid to see
I smile
Fake,
Hope it was worth the money
I don't want your
overweight hubby,
Honey,
I'm the goodbye girl
Touch me,


Then leave

She wasn't raised by wolves
But she could have been
The way she howls at the moon
And chases away all men
She wasn't raised by wolves
But you must believe
If you try to get too close
She will bear all of her teeth
It isn't she doesn't trust you
Except it is exactly that
She wasn't raised by wolves
So there's no pack watching her back
She wasn't raised by wolves
But she might have been
To watch her claw and bite at life
Every time she remembers when...
She wasn't raised by wolves
Perhaps she should have been
Maybe she'd sleep more peacefully
Alone inside her den.

We start from nothing
And spring from dreams
Reaching through dimensions
And time.
I stand like a rock
Rooted to the earth beneath my feet
Know this place
Own this space
Whilst possessing nothing at all
Still I fly
Pondering reality
Dreaming with clarity
Knowing only
Love survives all.

Somewhere, amongst the debris
of cigarettes after ***,
chemicals to induce sleep,
I forgot what it means to love.

I forgot what it means to breathe,
to sit still, and just be.

Somewhere, beneath these hooded seams
of solitude and well-versed grief,
beats a heart less cynical,
less tamed by vague distraction.

My nervous ticks and bad habits,
line of best fit for a near-hit
of satisfaction:

This is not enough, I know.
This is not nearly enough
to cool the bray of life
that still rattles meaning in my bones.

I forgot what it means to love,
what separates a house from a home.

Somewhere beyond this thirst
for brand-new words
is a gratitude for all that has been.
Every cliché holds a truth.

Every sentiment, a cocoon,
that I should lie so still inside

until I am wholesome,
until I am new.

Between day and night, choose fight or flight, hide out of sight, shield from the light.

Cocooned in our beds, words trapped in our heads, a poets mind is forming, ideas begin their swarming.

Not conforming
              Lines deforming
                        Minds contorting
                                       Rhymes consorting.