The only part of my day
That I look forward to
Is when I go to bed
And lay there making up scenarios
In my head.

I think of comebacks
To 8th grade bullies.
I think of witty retorts
To my mother's snide comments.
I think of intelligent things to add
To conversations I had months ago.

I think of all the things
I was too scared to say.

And in my mind
I say them.
And pretend how things would be different
If only I had the courage to speak.

Spending a month in a hospital teaches you a lot about people.
The doctor that told me to shave my head or she wouldn't treat me,
The nurses that spent forever chatting to me
And giving me supportive advice about how my illness doesn't define me.
The woman who was given a terminal cancer sentence
And chose not to pay attention to it and defied it anyway.
How she sat next to me on my bed,
Told me that all suffering is valid,
And just because I'm not dying, doesn't mean I don't get to complain.
How she complains more about her skin problems
Than she ever complained about her cancer,
And that's OK, because pain rarely follows rules.
I never even learned her name,
But she gave me the words I hold most closely to me
On those days when I want to fall asleep and never wake up.
I'm allowed to scream and shout and rage against the pain
And the unfairness of it happening to me.
I just have to make sure I know where the line is
Between giving my darkness a voice and pitying myself.

Sometimes
we must open
words like
unexpected
            gifts,
unwrapping
them with
reverence
           and honor
gently removing
their layers
ever so gingerly,
       ******* their
                   meanings
with utmost care
so as not to disturb
them as they sleep
tiptoeing through
the house barefoot
in a gentle,
        sacred dance
letting each
tiny wisp
of meaning
        caress our cells
in white,
feathery
seedlings that
shimmy in the wind
      Other times
we must let
each letter
     kiss the air
around us
      in a frantic whizzing
and imprint itself
upon our hearts
as they beat
   Personally,
     I prefer
to just sit still
upon the sand,
right where tide
licks my feet
in between that
mystical space where
           ebb meets flow
in perfect, utter silence
Then, in meditation
            stance, fingers  
                    curved up,        
I am
           ready for that
liquid receiving
letting the waves
of verse and rhyme
wash right over me
my very molecules
taking them in,
salty sweet
        in most
              delicious
                           fusion
as abundance
and the convulsion
of ecstasy
whisper
        my name

Baggage within
      trappings of illusions,
love packed away
  in neat little compartments
gathering cobwebs at
     makeshift improvisations,
dusting intermittently
      if by chance a light
           should shine,
never wholly untangling
    the snare
mid a labyrinth of
      transparent entrapment,  
as violin strings continue
      to unlatch the same old key

Wildflower 'neath a
     giant weeping willow,
         comforted by the shade
  her fragrance wafting darkly
      whispered into the wind ~
   she'd been 'betrayed by the sun',
frail tendrils blistered
     of indiscretion below
            burning discrimination,
   fallen neath the cracks
        suffocating a delicate essence,
she could no longer bear the
   deep-rooted superficiality  
         of seeds buried within *****
                    little implanted secrets