I write because if I didn't
I would choke on my thoughts
like a piece of half-chewed steak.
I would gag, turn red and meet certain death
from the inside out.
No need for first aid.
I write.

I write to express the dark and the heavenly
snapshots that sit undeveloped in my mind
potentially creating blurs and plaque over time.
I paint pictures with words in lieu of oil base
My pen draws me within
It is the high that I chase.
I write.

I write because words are my music
Poetry my score.
I close my eyes, disappear.
Shhhh. Can you hear?
That motion picture soundtrack?
The stories that play
havoc and bliss in my brain
are much more captivating than
real scenes too mundane to name.
I write


I write because without it I just couldn't breathe.
I'd huff and puff
And finally asphyxiate on just.... me.
Words are my blood
sharing life from my core
Yet my pain is tinted with rainbows.
Open me up;
watch me pour.
I write.

Please God
Send me an adventure. 
A crazy wild ride.
Let's Make A Deal.
Give me a choice of 3 doors
before my formidable demise.
You see if I don't get some chill,
some life-force pill; I'll suffocate on boredom
and absence of thrill.
Send me a time machine to fly back in history.
Let me feel what it's like to be part of a movement
or solve a mystery.
Shoot me into space where I can meet the Third Kind.
Might not speak the same language, but we'd communicate just fine.
I'd feel right at home on some far away planet.
Now, please, send me some adventure ******!

But wait.
There's just one little clause.
I need this adventure no earlier than 6 a.m. and not after 9 at night.
Oh and I have to be home in time
to feed the cat, make dinner and tuck the kids in tight.
So schedule me in, deliver my ride.
I'm patiently waiting; swiftly dying inside.
No pressure or anything; I'm chillin'.
Eyes peering behind blinds like a death row villain.
Fingers crossed. Breath held.
Is that FedEx? Oh god willing...

Per terms and agreement:
Please do not send me adventure wrapped in Wet Wipes, Stow-and-Go Seating or sibling food fights.
Just launch me outta homemakin' and caretakin'
for one stinkin' day!
Let me a be a gypsy, a journalist or have a fan-tas-tic lay.
Let me move masses, stack paper, be the star of a play.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

Nevermind. 
It's Groundhog Day.

I wonder how you love me
when I'm a total mess?
Or how you wait patiently
sopping up tears with tenderness?

How is it that you love me
when I spit venom of blame?
Or turn my heart on and off
siphoning life from our veins?

How is it that you love me
when I'm always on edge?
Or when I'm crying then raging
with one toe over the ledge?

How is that you love me
when you watch me try to escape?
A dysfunctional drain swirling
with anger and self-hate.

What must it be like
to love a woman like me?
I bet it's hard to watch
the abuse from my worst enemy;  me.

I wonder how you love me?
Tell me please.
Lucky me to have the heart
of the man who sees all of me.

She got a ticket to nowhere
and bought it with a bucket of dreams.
Dreams that were traded
for a vast plain of empty seeds.

She planted drops of hope
and watered the fields
with devotion and attention.
Only to be left with dead seedlings
of bitter dissension.

With her soul account emptied and bare
she had invested everything
for a plentiful harvest to
sustain nutrition and share.
She plowed and plowed
But the sprouts she tried to cultivate
Stayed dormant and bowed
throughout a lifetime of relentless drought.

The sun still rises
and there is water from my tears
with enough attention and some discarded fears
Perhaps one little seed will take hold
and enter the world
with new blooms
that beautifully unfold.

Back in the saddle all suited up
she figures
maybe
just maybe
if I don't give up
With just one seed from her pocket
buried deep in a survivor's locket
she patted it down
and drenched it with faith
Called on her angels and down came the rain.

Everybody in this would just hates and hates and hates,
leaving no room for love,
leaving no room to be myself,
leaving no room for a smile.

Reality is calling and I can no longer send it to voicemail,
reality is here to show me that i'm beautiful,
reality is not always fitting in but reality is finding my place to fit in.

I watch teenage girls flipping through magazines filled with society's image of "normal" and "beautiful",
pictures of girls so small that they are ghostly.
This is the reason why girls are getting smaller each year.

Maybe shes born with it, maybe its Maybelline?
I'm definitely sure we are all born with it,
being lied to so they cover up their faces with a mask of insecurity.

I struggled through a desert
a bare and unforgiving land
constantly feeling though
I had no one to hold my hand

Many, just weren't there
never offering to show me the way
so I quickly stopped asking
and got used to being afraid

Many years were spent
advancing painfully through the sand
trying to make it on my own
finding ways to understand

I couldn't help but take the long way
making it harder on myself
I truly believed I was lost
and refused to ask for help

Rejection is a cruel emotion
that I know will never leave
it grips from inside out
making it so hard to breathe

I may have found my oasis
really it's been here longer than I thought
but it's hard to recognise a safe haven
when rejection is all you've been taught