Never lie to the same poem twice
save it for the next one
or better yet don't tell it at all
for a lie no matter how beautiful
it may sound
or sweet it may taste
rolling off the tongue
will always leave behind
a sour smell
to linger in the mouth
of the past and present
and more often than not
carry knives into the future

Never kiss a new lover
with an old prayer on your lips
it will not bloom
to love or lust
only heartache and embarrassment
be alone and lonely and miserable
until there is no stain or trace
of old fire burning
or cinders glowing
or ashes still smoldering
forming the face and the name
that no longer cares
for your prayers

Never tell the truth to a kiss
that whispers only lies
when speaking of love
and dances with serpents
that tend to planting seeds
of venom and lust
in the skin
and the core of pleasure
that will only wither
and rot on the vine

be patient with yourself
be kind to yourself
time and life will pass
and pass too quickly
and pass too slowly

wait and listen

you will find
what you need
as it finds you...

unexpectedly

and then you can
kiss the love
that whispers in dreams
while only speaking the truth

In the pit of my heart,
I yearn to learn
your not dead.

Even if I'm dead to you.

People are always dead to you
if they don't exist in your life anymore.


I was a girl
with paradigm abreast,
shared world hater, lover,
frolicking in the clearing of disenchantment,
pleased beneath your rounded shoulders,
our first breath together
was dark green water,
and I was parched,

and I feel weak,
when I think about
the shadows of our feet,
frozen to the pavement,
that cold California February,
your fingers opening my pilot jacket unabashedly —
my soft belly exposed and stiffened —
a waste to hold on before you leave.

Men who ruin my night:

All I want is to be free
without having to coordinate
an army of women as posse.

But invitably, you will approach
and interrupt any attempt
at a private one woman show.
I will play nice,
an actress to backhand
compliments about her casual appearance
or whatever the ****
you strike up and serve my way.

I will anxiously look
for strangers to talk loudly with,
avoid your gaze, your funnel,
your "friendly" back pats.
Just because we have a mutual friend
doesn't mean your relevant.
But you don't know that.
You don't know me.
The girl inside, just a social
butterfly flying away from
your outstretched hands
into the night, into her lonely bed,
no dreams of hopeless men.
Excusing herself with period cramps.
No one can fault a girl for hiding
with such pain. It's the ultimate way
to get stupid to turn away.
And nature's way of telling her,
let's not fight those men tryna
cramp your style.
Just stay inside.
Sorry girl, another time.

I notice the difference
moment to
moment
less, and my
purpose seems to change as
quickly as the palms
blow above me -
this strange wind.

Shouldn't I write it?
Or is it decided?
Or is it too sacred,
never good enough,
scattered,
and self-deprecating
like my thoughts.
A comedy hiding
the tragedy I feel;
I feel too much.

Like the times I just
felt tired and tied,
alone, listening to Coldplay,
and crying, yearning
to remember shades of
yesterday with the same
bright sun.

In the past,
I have yearned for
profound knowledge,
to understand
intense sensation,
general contentedness,
direction and beautiful places,
meekness and worn out spaces.

But I'm tired of contemplating,
the grass green, blue air, slight breeze.
I'm just hacking
incongruent chunks
of increasing size,
left with divets,
and a dull knife.

Draw me into a poem and paint in all the dents the world has left within me.
Feeling your hands on my skin, caressing the inside of my thighs, moving up
Has me questioning how the roughness of the world hasn't corrupted such soft hands
Your eyes linger on my chest, and it feels like your gaze burns through me, seeing a glimpse of all the ache I feel
You run your hands through my hair, and your expression becomes much softer, as if holding a precious gem and being so afraid of scratching or dropping it  
You whisper in my ear how you want to protect me at all cost and how the world does not deserve me
How I'm so pure and unscathed by life's many hardships
You promise to wrap your arms around me every night,
When we're lying on our crisp, white bed sheets
Reminding me how much the world is lucky to have an angel walk among them
Yet, I can't help but feel like I put up a front of being something I'm not.
I am nothing
My heart is stained black.
My thoughts are usually clouded
If i could describe them as a season, it would be fall,
Because they're always causing me to breakdown Into pieces
I am soiled with pure hate.
The rage fills me and all the love dissolves
If the world hasn't worked you into roughness, maybe my soul will
I think it would be better for you to leave.
But maybe you see the potential of what I can become,
Gentle, soft
Adoring
Something so much more, than I already am
My eyes follow yours and we lose ourselves in the moment, putting aside all of our do's and don't's,
Forgetting that love never plays fair,
And soon, one of us is bound to get hurt.

Lately,
just the bumps
and the grind
no outlet anywhere,
just outlets everywhere.
turning everyone off,
please let me just focus
on the brightness in the dark.

Its lonely here,
and stifling sometimes.
speaking in brief
interjections,
my voice grows stronger.
no release of inarticulate
thoughts in small talk -
just dealing with them.

Waking up with
no aftertaste of moving
at someone else's pace.
barely noticed how I
was trained til
re-lax and just be me,
that extraordinary feeling
of being me,
in that place where
there is no try,
Just climbing,
just a smile
at sentiments
similiar to mine.

And my,

We're all just dropping in
and saying goodbye.
wondering what each other's
private life is like.

This is mine.

the arpeggio of strings,
a distant voice sings,
for pleasantly contained spaces,
in far away places.
somewhere sweet
and safe, with
sorrows embraced,
far in the distance,
neath moonlit plains,
white stars,
wave crashing and
undeveloped terrain.
the cool cast of a fire-y past,
riper, wiser, and
unaffected by change.
looking black,
at looking back.