she sees it in the laughter of children
feels the vibrations of a song
hears it in the silence of the darkest night.
always a blue sky
a sunny day
the sails of her ship
billowing in a west wind

she is a shotgun and a prayer
would like 3 cats
a dog
the cabin in the woods with cable tv

she dreams of the open field where
the white horse always waits
ready to make the run
to a meadow high in the distance


daughter

the city lights are two things;
bustling but blinding,
the life of the party intersect the intoxicating loneliness,
it drinks all the emotion and pour them all at once,
the paradox is right here,
in the middle of these million heartbeats.

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

It's the endless sky that give chills all over,
For you who wonder and wander,
Surrounded by confusion and mixing decision,
For you this sky somehow heals,
Relinquish the constant distance of you and your own.