Perhaps life outside the seascape of emotion
is worth trying to, just live & never expecting
high demand.

Perhaps life gets bitter when your
too alone for such a long time, it's like
You seek company but you never did.

Perhaps life outside writing are more
Challenging than the play of words,
Trying to dare the truth that never
Comes out.

Perhaps life gets busy on things that
didn't matter, you laze around and
listening to stories never your own.
Trying to pass time, like a passerby
Never staying, you just fade in the
background of things you wish
it's Yours...

Perhaps life outside my inspiration
I'm too forgiving, too passive, and
too sensitive that I never care for
Myself. I care too much on my own
Prison that I forgot to believe on myself.

I don't write like I used too,
because I care too less like
I used too...

Little fox,
I've come to confess to you

though I know your church is the chicken coop
and your Christ is appetite.

If there is mist up on the mountain,
it's my spirit wandering.

The rest of me kneels here,
before you in the brambles like an overturned cup.

Alone in my bed, I have wondered
why I hurt my lovers, why they hurt me,

but I think it's because
angels are so similar to layers

especially when a spray of white feathers
in the air is all that's left.

Little fox, here is my spirit
riding wrapped around your slender black feet.

Let's test our hearts and pull a wishbone--
you've got plenty cast aside.

If I win, I'll change my ways and skew to kind.
And if you win?

I'll call him, saying let's try again
knowing what will happen, and how sly my words have been.

Grandma’s kitchen didn’t
have room for me.
There were no warm fuzzies,
honeyed memories, or even
a space at the table.

With her smothering, mothering
of my cousins I was an end of the line,
barely know your name, grandchild.

My arms never reached nor did my lips ask
for affection…Grandma didn’t have any urges
to spoil an apple outside the walls of her orchard.

Times were tough…I didn’t get a choice
to be angry or sad…I slipped into the slot
life made for me, and was taught my first
dandelion lesson of how to bloom in drought.

Eleven years ago
Tonight
As the early
Autumn evening sky
Had just begun
To dim the light
You ceased to be
With my hand in yours
Shouting your name
With no response
Then those angels
Gently laid you back
Speaking sweetly
As you went
A thin rivulet
Of crimson
The sign
That you were spent
So I'll think of you often
And I'll send love with this
On September the 19th
About a quarter past six.