roses are fine and violets are too
but she is a garden
full of vibrant colors like the scarlet tint of her cheeks
or the amber glow of her eyes

she is the setting sun
a beauty so bright that i cannot gaze directly at her
yet so captivating that i cannot look away
i crave her gentle warmth on my skin

and if i tried to speak to her
the air in my lungs would leave my words in the dust
trapping them in the prison of my throat
and leaving me choking on the things i wish i could say

like how i go out of my way just to see her smile everyday

Not a good thing
When one lives in poverty
Situations are often dreary
While in a state of uncertainty
There are dark clouds
That appear in the sky
Nothing but somber moments
As life sadly passes you by

Driving In Ireland

Try buttering toast with a tulip
on horseback.  Skittish nag, twisted chaps,
flogging a slice, reins in your teeth,
waving a battered Black Parrot  
heading a slow parade.

Throwing daggers at the mirror
Hoping one might motivate me
Disgusted, hoping to be just a little more...
Just a little more...
Maybe then...
If I just...
I. Can't.

Nothing is going to satisfy self hatred
It takes and takes and is always wanting more
Funny thing that after a while we are left feeling like nothing
Not enough
Never enough
We believe it too

Eyes glued to our idea of what's "wrong" with ourselves
But what's really wrong is our eyes
Blinded by the lies of society

this is what your mother does not want you to see,
that your ancestors rattled the cages so hard they broke
and learned to tame the lioness that stepped out from the aftermath.
you can find your linage in the dirt beneath your grandmothers fingernails,
here is the fight that they poured into your soul,
the mountains that they climbed,
the battles that they conquered.
your mothers grandmother laughs like wicken,
carries something valuable in the deep creases of her skin,
tells you not to waste your time with love and lust,
but to chase the wind while your feet are strong enough to carry you.
this is what your mother does not want you to see,
that you come from a long line of women nothing close to tame.
that you carry the blood of those who molded the world,
instead of letting it mold them.

Morning Sunlight keens like a mother
cries for her dying child & leaves
abandon their trees

while fall presumes winter
will glower like black
ice

hard from
preceding
months,

where the promise
of spring seems
unattainable.

Sometimes I wonder

if I even survived
my childhood.

Maybe some part of me
is sleeping
up on the hill.

One of those
Nightmares
That I couldn't escape
Carried me off
In its jaws

and so maybe
I am planted.
Looking down
At all the people
I can't remember.

I hope that I am ashes.
I never wanted a stone.