I miss the open road
with foggy streets at 5am,

driving all night long,

only to see the sunrise
in the rear view mirror,

time passes quickly
when chasing the California sun.

I'm not meant
to stay in one place.

Fill your well
when love runs dry.

I see summer skies
hidden behind
your cloudy grey eyes.
I won't let you hide,
not when rainbows
betray your every lie.

I see beyond the darkness
that lays behind your hazel eyes.
It's not something
you can hide,
like summer storms,
and sad goodbyes.
It's there all the time.
It lights up
the midnight sky,
and strikes like lightening
with a deafening cry.

There is a bridge
that connects me
to a place of love
in my empty head.

It's called music.

The moon
is my only company
when I'm walking
down dimly lit streets.

I don't mind
that she knows
how I think.

I can tell she likes
the secrets I keep.

You have no idea
what you mean to me.
You are a lighthouse
when I'm lost at sea.

Rainy days,
and cloudy grey skies.
I miss the sunshine
hidden in
your bright blue eyes.
Stormy nights,
and cold December mornings.
I love the way
we get wrapped up
tight between the sheets.
Sunny days,
and brisk may showers.
I hear happiness
coming from your laughter.

I am capable of love,
even during,
the coldest of nights.

You get so mad
when I'm half in my head,
mostly because I write,
what I really should've said.

The years of tye dye,
and silky straight hair,
of stupidity,
and insecurity fears,
of pro Ana scares,
and late night dares.
The years of coffee,
and menthol cigarettes,
anything to keep
the dial on the scale
from moving forward.
I remember those years
crystal clear,
girls wandering the halls,
books in hand,
feet dragging behind them,
bodies moving,
with vacant eyes,
and soulless attitudes.
I was one of those girls too.
I wandered the halls,
like a ghost trapped between
two halves of tainted glass.
I was dead inside,
consumed by insecurities
that hovered around me like flies.
It was hard
to be a girl.
It was hard
to walk those halls
with shame carved in
to porcelain skin,
to walk those halls
with eyes reading
the canvas of my skin,
the story written
between showing ribs.
It was torture,
to starve with a smile
shining on my face like gold,
but so many of us did it.
It was sink or swim.
It was four years
of brutal judgement
by peers hiding
behind blue screens.
It was four years
of petty remarks,
each one a pin poked
straight through the heart.
It was 1,460 days
of crying on the bathroom floor,
of starving just to make
the pain go away,
of chances for someone
to tell you
it was going to be okay,
eventually.
I remember those years.
I remember thinking
the pain was never
going to go away,
and even after
I left that place,
it didn't go away,
not completely.
It just got easier
to wake up each morning,
knowing I didn't
have to walk the halls
with all those eyes,
watching,
waiting for my demise.
It got easier to live,
to remember what it meant
to love who I am.
It got easier to recover,
to eat without feeling,
like I only deserve hunger.
It just got easier,
because high school is torture.
It's not worth it
to let it take over,
to let their words
linger in my ears
like a crack of deafening thunder.
It's not worth it
to be afraid of their thunder,
because I am lightening.
I hold the power.
I'll burn bright,
and make them
run for shelter.

Entry ~
*I'm lost in my head, staring at an ash tray in the middle of the coffee table. It amazes me how a simple object can hold so many memories. I've had that ash tray for so many years. It's moved with me from 5 different houses in the last 10 years. It holds a piece of my soul locked up between its clear glass walls. I can't even remember where I got it, but I remember it wasn't always an ash tray. I used it to hold random little trinkets, like necklaces and earrings that didn't have a match. That was when I was about 13, before I really even took up smoking. By the time I was 17 it was used for cigarettes. I remember opening my bedroom window, climbing out to the flat roof of the sun porch, lighting up my camel cigarette, and staring up at the stars. I would sit there for an hour after my last drag, my glass ash tray sitting on the open windowsill, contemplating my existence in the hundreds of galaxies swirling above my head. I remember thinking they were close enough to know they exist, but far enough away for you to doubt it. By the time I was 19, I was no longer using that ash tray for cigarettes, but for joints and spliffs. It sat on the corner of my mahogany dresser, right next to my incense and antique lamp. It sat there for about a year. Until I left it behind to drive across the country. That was just a few months ago. I'm 20 now, and have just returned from my journey. I've come home to the same house I lived in before, to my glass ash tray sitting in the middle of the coffee table. I can only imagine what it saw from its resting spot. I'm glad it sat there, collecting memories like settling dust. It makes me feel like I never left at all. Like a piece of me remained here with the people I love. They just didn't know it. I think when I leave for good, I'll leave it behind once again. It'll be like leaving a piece of my soul with them, to leave my mark on their existence. They may not realize it at first, but at some point they'll look down at that ash tray, and think of it's origins. When they do I'll cross their life for just a brief moment. They may not even know it was my ash tray, but it won't matter. They don't need to know it was mine for our paths to intersect. The past is a witness, and I can live with that.

Entry ~
*I walked into the sea. I dove beneath the rolling waves, and released every piece of me to the sandy pits underneath my feet. I came here to find some peace, to relinquish the pain I've been carrying, since the day my soul was born to this spinning planet of blue and green. I think my soul is made up of the past, of lives I've lived over centuries passed. I can't explain this karma any other way. It's stacked up against me, towering so high, I must've done something truly awful in a previous life, because there's no way it's karma from this one. I've paid for my mistakes in this life. I've done my time, endured my suffering for the mistakes I've made here, but I can't do anything about my previous lives. I don't think I payed my do's then. I think I ran. I know I did, because there is always an incessant urge to flee, deep inside me, whenever something goes wrong. It's instinctual, kind of like a lion chasing a gazelle. It's a natural instinct for the gazelle to flee when it's being hunted, and for the lion to chase when it's after prey. I think I've been running from the lion for centuries, maybe even millennia's. I don't know who the lion is, but I must've done something truly awful to deserve being punished through lifetimes of karma. I think this karma is how I'm supposed to know he's caught me. I've always had this feeling, deep inside my chest, that life on earth is a punishment. I was sent here to learn a lesson, and maybe I haven't been able to figure it out. That's why it feels like I'm constantly reborn, over and over again. I think in this life, I'm starting to figure it out. I think when I die from this incarnation, I'll transcend beyond the heavens. I'll go back to where I came from thousands of years ago. I'll go back to the place where the lion lays. I'll face him, and hope he doesn't **** me, or wound me to badly. I have to face him, because I can't keep running. I can't be reborn here again. This place is truly hell, but at least I find peace when I'm floating in the salty sea. It's a refuge for me.

There is a point
of no return
when it comes to loving
your messed up soul.

Entry ~
By the pit of a black hole. That's how it'll happen. By the flick of a lighter, and a burnt up spoon tucked away in the corner. A half *** attempt to be discreet. It'll sit there. Staring at you, haunting you, taunting your very existence. By the death of a friend you called your family. A stupid, avoidable death at the hand of ***** needle. That's how it'll happen. You'll look up one day, at the bottom of a hole you can't remember falling into. You'll climb, and climb, clawing your way to the top. Desperately slipping back down every time you make headway. It's a hopelessly dark place. It's the kind of place that stays with you forever. Even if you're lucky enough to claw your way out for good. It's the kind of place that leaves you void of love. It's a place for broken down souls. For desperate addicts turning tricks just to get their fix. You'll find yourself there, alone. Cold. You'll find yourself wishing it all back. Wishing you never took that one little hit, never sniffed that innocent little line. You'll hate yourself for thinking just this one time, because you knew it was a lie the second it crossed your mind. You just didn't want to believe it. It was a choice. Falling to the bottom of this hole. You made it the second you chose to say yes that very first time. It was the moment you sold your soul to the devil. A signature scribbled half heartedly on a piece of charred up tinfoil. It was a choice, and you knew you were making it. It's the worst part about being this kind of addict. You know you'll die eventually. Just like that friend you called your family, but nothing is enough to make you stop. The opiates leave you hollow. A shell of a person that used to love. You'll find yourself so empty. You don't care about your family, or those friends still around that don't **** with what you're doing. You can remember a time when you were so close to them. So different. Still an addict, but just circling the rim of that hole you're in now. You weren't addicted to those drugs, but you were on your way. It was those friends that kept you in the light. That kept you from falling into those harder drugs. They were a lifeline. A silver string hanging from the stars. You held on for so long. Every time you looked down you got so scared. It was a long way to the bottom, but you had scissors in your hand the whole time you were hanging on. At a certain point, you got weak, and cut that silver cord. You fell so far down, and at the bottom of that hole, sitting in the corner to comfort you, a burnt up soon and a white bic lighter. You traded in your lifeline. It was no longer your friends that could bring you back to the light. It was a bag of tar, and a silver spoon. It was a choice, and when the day comes when you say you're getting clean, you'll reach for the hands that used to be there. Out spread, patiently hanging there waiting for you to grab them, and they won't be there.

I am walking
an ancient path.
It is worn down,
by thousands of those
who walked before me.
I am honored
to know I'm following
the footsteps
of my ancestors.
I can feel their spirits
walking beside me,
guiding me,
urging me to listen
to the tales of the trees.
They are so very old,
and whisper secrets
to wandering souls.
If you listen closely,
you will hear them speak
in the ruffling leaves.
If you are quiet,
you will hear
them tell their tales
of those who walked
long before you.

It took me years
to fall in love with myself.
It was a foreign idea
throughout my childhood.
I remember the jealousy I felt
for the girls with flawless skin,
and perfectly straight hair.
I thought they were beautiful,
and they were,
but not in the most natural way.
I wanted to be the girl
who was beautiful
after rolling out of bed at noon
without any makeup
besides the mascara
from the night before.
I wanted to be the girl
who was effortlessly beautiful
without giving it a second thought.
I always admired those girls.
I loved the security
that radiated off them,
like the shimmer of sunshine
on delicately tan skin.
It took me years
to become one of those girls.
It was a slow process.
It took the shedding
of a society built for
flawless makeup ridden
artificially created beauty.
It took acceptance
for who I am without the mask.
It took forgiveness
for the flaws I was blessed with at birth.
It took years,
but I'm finally there.
I'm one of those
naturally beautiful girls.
I'm one of those girls
that could careless about shaving,
or washing their hair.
I'm a girl without cares.
I'm a girl in love with herself.

I have superstition
written on my bones.
It courses through my veins,
and consumes my gypsy heart.
It controls the tricks
of my stealing ways.
If the moon is full,
It's your lucky day.
I'll leave you free,
and be on my way.

and without her ~
you will never be whole.

I can hear love
in the hardest rainfalls,
and see it blossoming
in the blooming roses.
It is easy to find
when you know
what to look for,
and easier to hold
when you have
a delicate hand.

I started writing
to get the pain out.
I needed a way
to claim a voice
in a ruthless world.
I couldn't find it
any other way.
I've tried everything,
but nothing
gives me a voice like poetry.
I've found things
that numb my pain,
like whiskey
and cigarettes.
I use them still,
even since
I've found my voice.
I'm addicted
to the way
they pair with my soul.   
It's kind of like
poets and coffee,
poets go well
with whiskey
and cigarettes too.
I think us poets,
we're addicted
to pain and suffering.
I think we like
the sting of heartbreak,
the pain of death,
the clutches of addiction.
In fact,
I know we do
because these
are the sufferings
that make up our work.
I'm a poet,
just like you.
I'm addicted
to coffee,
to whiskey and cigarettes,
to pain and suffering,
to loss and heartbreak.
I think it's why
so many of us
struggle to look
into the mirror.
It's because we know
our hearts are poison.
It's because we know
we can either
be monsters or angels.
It all depends on us,
on how we want
to roll the dice.

There are times
talking to you
feels like
throwing paper kites
underwater.
We are always
pulling
each other under,
instead of
building paper boats
to save
one another.

Your heart beats
between the walls
of your shattering chest.
I swear,
it sounds just like thunder,
and in your eyes,
I see rainstorms,
mixed with
catastrophic hurricanes.

There are words
trapped between
my memories and dreams.
I am learning
to capture them,
hold them close,
before setting them free.
I will no longer
hold on to words
that poison the love
within my soul.
I will shed light
in the darkest places
of my twisted memories,
and broken dreams.

I drove across the country.
I've seen landmarks and monuments
laid out before me
in every passing state.
I've seen the Arapaho National Forest
with the Colorado River
running between its canyons.
I've seen the arches of Utah,
and the dinosaur tracks
left behind in the Red Cliffs.
I have traveled
over three thousand miles
from east to west,
and I have not seen it all.
It is often forgotten
how truly massive this country is.
It seems so small
from the comfort
of our little lives
in separate states.
It is far from small.
It is an enormous chunk of land.
It stretches for days on end,
and every part of it
is breathtakingly beautiful.
This country has left its
mark on my heart.
I will never forget
this experience.
I will never forget
what this road has taught me.
I may be going home,
but I am not returning
the same as I was.
I have seen too much.
I have seen more than
I ever could have
in my tiny New York town.
This trip has ignited
a fire within my soul.
I will see what the rest
of this world has to offer.
I will chase the setting sun,
and move until
the stars fall behind me.
I may be going home,
but the flame within my soul
will light my way
to my next adventure.
I've tasted freedom,
I'm never going back.

I remember the first time
that I was called pretty.
I was eight years old.
I remember feeling
a bubble of insecurity
hover around me,
like an ant
under a microscope.
At eight years old,
I had experienced
my very first wave
of expectations of women
in a male dominated society.
I had no idea
that would be the first
of many by the time
I reached womanhood.
I was just a child.
I loved playing in the dirt,
and capturing bull frogs.
I was a girl
who played like a boy.
I never thought I was pretty,
not because I had
low self esteem,
but because
I was eight years old.
I was to young
to have pretty
wrapped up in my identity.
Fast forward
eight more years.
I am sixteen now.
I am no longer
playing in the dirt,
or capturing bull frogs.
I am painting my nails
bright pink,
and dying my hair
every two weeks.
I am trying to be pretty.
I am no longer
feeling the bubble of insecurity.
I am living in it
twenty four seven.
I am always concerned
with how I look,
how I act,
and what I say.
I am a girl
who is no longer a tomboy.
I am just a girl.
I no longer know
who I am,
because I am
not allowed
to be who I am.
I am expected
to sit quietly
in the corner,
straightening my hair,
perfecting my makeup,
so that a boy
who loves my body
can tell me he loves me,
and make me his wife.
Fast forward
4 more years.
I am twenty now.
I am numb
to the insecurity.
I am now expected
to live in a suburb,
raise three kids,
clean the house,
love my husband,
and my white picket fence.
I am just another girl
who is seen as pretty.
I am living a lifeless life.
I am at a crossroads
to either stay down
under the weight
of societies expectations,
or burn my picket fence
right down to the ground.
I am remembering
that tomboy I was
before I was called pretty.
I can either reconnect
with her fierceness,
or hide beyond a mask
of beige concealer.
I can either be a dove,
or I can be a phoenix.
I think
the choice is obvious.

I think of you
when I'm tossing
and turning
in the middle
of the night.
I can't get you
out of my head.
I keep going
over and over
all of the things
you said.
I think about
when you said
you loved me.
I remember
how you held me
so tightly to you,
I could have died
that night
at the mercy of you.
I remember
you were so warm,
and I was colder
than a winter storm.
I pushed my body
so close to you,
drifting away delicately
to dreams of our
blossoming new love.
I thought
it would last
forever.
I should have realized
that night,
there was
a blood red moon
hanging low
in the sky.

I wonder
what it is like
to have a soul
that is tied to stone,
that is happy with
the littlest amount
of love shown.
I wonder
are those the souls
that can withstand
the strongest winds
in the worst storms?
I will never know.
I have a soul
that is lighter than dust.
In one gust of wind,
I am gone,
like a dandelion
dances in the wind,
after it is blown away
to make a fragile wish.

I have seen beyond
the walls of death,
beyond time
there is a place
of immortal bliss.
I have seen a world
lingering next to our own,
hiding just beneath
our preoccupied senses.
If you lift the veil,
and dive into
your own consciousness,
without fear
of losing yourself,
then you too
will see your own mortality
is a mere illusion
of the vessel
you are caged within.

I'm dreaming
of laying in a field
of wild poppies.
Their fragrance
sweet as sugar.
Their petals
softer than silk.
I imagine
them wrapping
around me,
soothing me,
singing lullabies,
as I slowly
drift up high
into infinity.
Where the moon
shines bright
guarding the heavens.
I will kneel
before her,
asking her
to hang me
as one of her
most beautiful
stars in the sky.

I see
swirling colors
all around me,
they are moving
to quickly for me
to focus my gaze.
I am
in another dimension,
following fractals
through space and time.
I feel
the world around me
moving slower,
speaking to me
through patterns and colors.
I am
lost in fields
of iridescent flowers,
following the path
of my ancestors
to the holy
tree of knowledge.

The moon rises
pulling tides,
laughing at
my hearts
sweet demise.

Learn to love being alone.
Learn to love who you are.
Learn to love your body.
Learn to love your mind.
Learn to love.
Just learn.

Jealousy comes
in many shades,
from the lightest grey
to the darkest black.
In every form,
it poisons the heart
filling it with pain.
Once it's reached
deep inside you,
it almost never
goes away.
It creeps up
your throat,
during the most
unexpected of days,
forcing you to spill
the most hateful words,
things you didn't
mean too say.
This is how
it spreads.
It pours
from one heart
right into another.