Life has been quite kind to the chaos in my veins.
After all the attempts to fill my lungs with tar and dirt,
I am still in between the water and air, singing with fiery wonder.
So, with humiliation and perspective in my learning eyes,
I try to reach back and grasp truthful moments.

I have lied to myself many times,
It becomes difficult to separate the insecure story from my history.
I am left with the light of the moon singing upon different lands of water.
A collection of moments in which I can be alone with someone else,
Watching the moon paint pools of clouds or dissipate over an abyss.
These small monads of time contain infinite refractions of silver justice.

Take a breath.
I know the pain of realization is overwhelming.
But learn to speak through the high tides of your own ocean.

Yes, you have been hurt.
Your throat is sore with those worn words.
Yes, you have truly hurt others with this same pain.
Your tired hands shake with ****** fists.

Yes, you have laughed in the face of love
and dared to sneer at those with open hearts,
those who saw the sweet monster howling in your soul
and wanted to hold you softly.

Yes, instead of releasing the heavy burden of pride
And thanking the courageous explorer,
You have always swung around and released the caged wolf in your ribs,
letting her shred any hope near your heart.

I know all these realizations are much too late,
and I am a fool for believing I’ve experienced any retribution.

This is only a clumsy attempt to let you know,
Im trying.

Certain rhythms will provoke ghosts
in old attics reeking with romance.
That eternal prayer
found in complete silence,
begs sinners to break purity.

Mortal breathes begin to dance between lips,
creating poetry in sacred space.
The momentary awareness of another,
who craves the absorption of your soul.

**** me into your lungs darling.
I'll translate centuries of painful wisdom
stirring in the temple of my bones.

These truths begin a home
in our late night dialogues
circling around dangerous pasts,
all those golden, fatal blades.

As we make our way back to the red light of sleep,
the attic leans in to touch our skulls.
We respond with agony and laughter.

I slide into sleep,
forgetting all I need to find in your mind.
Accepting the fingerprints
as you press my identity upon your tongue.
The restless goddess within my nature
swallows the mortality
in tonight's poetry.

But this never lasts.
Love is a distraction,
an intoxication meant to entertain that ego who loves deficiency,
a selfish voice who finds herself every morning in front of a decaying mirror
and blames the lack of other.

Learn to leave the fear behind.
You alone are whole.
There is poetry sewn into your veins.
Underneath that sacred silence
there is an original symphony
waiting to find the medium of your complex truth.

Life gives us
soft,
      fragile
                 form
in the beginning.

We begin
fuzzy,
clumsy,
blind to the blades
nature bestows as knowledge.

Some avoid the tree of good and evil,
adjusting to the bright exposure,
grasping binoculars to drink up the scene of sin.
Waiting to watch which love is truth.
Waiting to say who is evil in their attempt.

There I am.
in a shop full of knives.
Hungry to ****** naivety,
no matter the price.

The reflective edge
illuminates my soft pain,
As I choose the sharpest edge
to electrify my new skin.

What drove mother crazy?
I had to taste the apple.

There was knowledge in the pain,
in the experience of carving your skin
with objects unable to care for your blood.

You who wanted to drink my pain,
sweet roots I made metal,
You never deserved to be seen in horror.

I have learned to stop opening the drawer,
to stop carving the names of dead love.

Life continues breathing,
as we become
strong,
          worn
                    bark
born to form curious skin.

I once met a man who read my bellybutton.
He told me that the two horizontal lines
meant I have internal and external insecurities.
I scoffed at the idea that those things
could disappear from mortal souls.
He then pointed to the bottom vertical line,
the most noticeable,
and told me
that meant
my biggest insecurity was my reproductive organs.

I smiled small.
Should I tell him about the dead baby
or instead of the riley women who have male dependency.
I chose the latter,
for Im not sure if the kid is still dead.
I could hear her screams in late night alleys for two years after.
She haunts my horror dreams,
singing we could have lived happily ever after.

Instead, Ill chose the story of my stepfather
who called me a *****
and cried to my mother
that I was trying to ****** him with training bras and black eye liner.

'Did he hurt you?'
'of course,
but so did my mother-
and I've learned to forgive those
who chose life over freedom.'

It's more than I've done.

Grasp roots you've always had,
the ones self made,
and eternally contain.
Never let insecurity get in your way.

Remember,
embrace yo snake
let your gold permeate
all things you care to create.
Stick to your few traits,
don't do too many drugs man made,
dance in the cliche fingers of rain,
sing with blood to release pain.

Listen with your heart,
review with your brain,
never filter vulnerable art,
know the best isnt always sane.
Allow the moon to light your dark,
absorb the motion of waves.

Baby, this is it,
the beauty of self acceptance.


Author: Unknown,
cause these things I write down might be me,
but also just some soul speaking through my wings.

Hello fresh eternal ocean,
always singing with the glamour of motion,
have you missed my gypsy feet of lost potions?
I heard the bellow of your tremendous helloos
from the depths of Big Sur's incandescent soothes.

Sing back my childhood laughter
with tidal pools of collected truth,
reminding me I am still matter,
and will decay with your mortal proof.

Cliff edge moments continue to build
soulful homes in this growing energy field,
framed in my fingerprints still seeking old gills
in the murmur of pines and oaks sewing nature's twills

I am sitting on some California balcony
chanting praise in silence and cigarette smoke,
accepting my task to exalt the maddening dichotomy,
these cursive words love and dying,
inked into my bark of worn oak.

The world sits before fingertips
like piano keys yearning in stillness.
I become nervous
and flood the possibilities with sinking ships.

Thats what childhood gave us lost ones.
the ability to understand probability,
realistic expectation,
no fairytale miracle to rescue our slipping love.

We may be sarcastically prepared
but where does that leave room for hope?
There is no hope in the live broadcast of bodies falling from towers
nor in the closets full of kids hiding from loving fists.

After all, those who lost innocence too soon
need a reason for the soul
more than the noble lie of love.

Some try to replace their love with circles.
The heartbroken soil of earth,
littered with mathematicians and linguists,
is now veiled between narrow strips of light,
revealing each unconscious glove,
fact checking their painting upon bright,
calming their hubris with symbols,
excluding truth in dark night.

Those with wandering toes
try to ascend to the sky,
twist toward the ceiling of branches,
attempt to swallow books of romance,
then settle into tree roots,
only to find their bones
broken by different forms of fate.
Crying out with constrained lungs,
their heavy thoughts
often coat lonely lullabies of our comfort.

I wander in and out of the striates,
brushing fact and wanderlust
with fingerprints of lonely curiosity,
pressing reflection upon papyrus.
Occasionally seduced by poetic freedom,
my hands make an attempt
to climb the bark of lost songs.
Yet, I always fall from the ascent
upon the same destination,
our graveyard.

Refusing to accept your silent departure,
I watch a young boy scream delusion
at our crumbling faces.
I place coveted trinkets
of blue bonnets and snow white sand,
simple moments of easy sacrifice,
at the feet of your flaming alter.

Our inky history swims into my nose
as I press the pages to thirsty pores,
smelling the scent of what was.
The ode to flaw reeks with rot.
So, I remove the last page
before my burnt hands
reverently let the others fall into the fire.

I stuff the last page into my throat,
letting the black liquid and white paper
become a part of my changing nature.

I find hope in this power,
The simultaneity of creation and destruction.
It soothes my tidal doubts with encouragement.
The piano player must love the ancient poetry
destroyed in the birth of each new ballad.