What if,
with the softness of the velvet belly of a falling flower petal
landing gently on a cracked windowsill
love is what is brushing your hair back from your cheek
and even
giggles
in the dark,
smiling at you even when you can't see it?

Among wretched hearts
and with gnashing of teeth-
no, I don't know why I can't fall asleep
I'm twisted in sheets
aching for love
knowing no one will come for me.

Halloween is the one time of the year
all the ghouls and demons and ***** creatures
can come out to play.

No one glances at the
bulging eyes or wild horns
as the kids play
among former beings of the night.

In the early dusk evenings
among cracking leaves
sounding like flames licking neighborhood streets,
I see peace in the flickering eyes of a
children's jack o' lantern,
not startled by
the ghost I am
as I slip by.

I crave the days
when frost kisses my toes through my boots
and the few leaves left on trees
flutter down to
crunch, deliciously,
under my feet.

I miss the memories of
leaning into the wind,
letting it fill the gaps in my coat and
thinking, just maybe, I could fly.

Hot sips of drinks
between my lips,
filling my throat and lungs
with a warmth irreplaceable.

A season of change, but of calming
of settling into ones skin
metamorphosis and yet
simple enjoyment
of all the little things.

Don't forget the coffee you left brewing as you rush out the door,
don't forget to glance at the sunrise driving down the highway
don't miss the smell of the tulips and
bright marigolds outside your door;
fall will come before you know it
and frost will cover the ground

I'll drink it when I get there,
I'll take a picture and look at it later
I'll light a candle and
paint a picture
tomorrow,
this weekend,
when I have time.

Don't postpone your life in the pursuit of a dream,
as sweet as it may be
that could be ended tomorrow.

Something as simple as
a coffee,
a stranger's smile,
a moment to breathe amidst the colors of the sunset
as it dances beautifully
just for you.

Enjoy today,
for just what it is,
so you may always have something to wake up for.

All I want is to be held, be loved - to be seen
Is that too much to ask?

Is some part of me so bright? Anyone who looks
turns away with closed eyes.

Like an eclipse, I am as lonely as the moon
never loved as I love.

I reach out with empty palms, grasping, waiting, and
find an emptier heart.

When you finally make it
to the height of your dreams
and it is just as bland, flawed, and tedious
as they all said it would be
and it is perfect.

My joy is not born from
all the highlighted phrases and favorite moments
but instead grows in
all the space in between.

Being true of heart,
and pure in intention
will get you hurt,
and teach you lessons.

You must make room to accept
the freedom offered to you,
not by following fake rules
but only believing in its truth.

We seek absolution
meaning,
forgiveness
when it does not need to be "found" at all.

The point of love, of trust, we witness
is that it is free -
free from strings attached,
free from forced bent knees.

If it comes at a cost,
unwrap it, and see clearly:
the attached price tag is enough
to reveal its inauthenticity.

Beware of cloaked expectations,
control disguised as love.
A pure heart should be the only price paid
for love.

Be resolute in your search,
and return to those who give freely:
only these true gemstones are worth keeping
and calling good company.

A twinge of regret is always present
as we pass the paths that should have -
could have - been,
and see the keychains
from places we've never seen,
on other passenger's bags, and
jealous, we tear our tickets
and wish we had listed
a different destination,
wonder what it would have taken
as others do the same
from their seats.

With a clear mind,
the words flow in:

I hear a cadence like a beating drum
from my own heartbeat in my ears
disrupting the silence, or
adding to it, I can’t tell

the images, the feelings
like sand across my skin
like music in the distance, you can’t hear the lyrics
but you can tell you know the song.

Like visions in a hazy prophecy
my mind spins the whims my dreams whisper to me
and I close my eyes, and weave-
and here flows this
poem,
or maybe it’s just the quiet breeze
and all this is my mere imagining.

I would never wish pain on another
let alone the one that I love
Yet, I wish
you would tell me “I miss you”
so I know
we both miss us.

Life seems duller, without you here
even as we wait
to meet.

I have strived in earnest
at many an affectation,
played my hand, and found
the cards were not dealt in my favor.

I have considered myself an intellectual,
esteemed, yet trying to be
frugal in my pride
I shied away from arrogance
and found I lacked the spine, or the eyes
to see what words of mine
could stand alone
beside the shoulders of greats.

This is not to be self-disparaging;
on the contrary, it is quite limiting
to believe you have no limits
for when the results come in, and the chips are down
who can be blamed but yourself?

No, I do not fancy myself
some seer of politics or
wordsmith of old,
I am too impatient
to sift the extent of knowledge in my hands,
I dump in the whole bag of flour
mix, and hope for the best.

So here I sit:
enjoying the feeling
of words running over my tongue
and within the bones of my fingers,
the scratch of a pen
beside the sound of birds
in the early morning.

To many, it is not much
but to me, it is enough
to consider myself a
simple poet
with nothing to share
but my condolences
for the ones who cannot create freely.

By candlelight, I write to you
my Dearest
pens the hands of so many
ancient, yet still living, loves
from times
now only of memory.

Wives, and husbands
and lovers, to daughters
to friends
turned heartbreakers
how such drama unraveled over months
of ship travels!

What a slow, painful
falling apart, or coming to life:
oh, what could have grown from such
a meaningful spark

started by one letter.
A mere penstroke
sent with love,
on faithful winds.

Weighing the scales of
time and regret:
it wouldn’t be balanced if we had
one without the other,
now would it?

You cannot escape regret
trying to flee has steep costs;
you will drown in the time you’ve lost-
but
keeping the balance
between your hopes and your loss,
once the scale rusts
you may find yourself pleased, after all.

I remember waking up on Saturday mornings
to watch the reruns
of my favorite tv shows,
or staying up late at night
so I didn’t have to record
the finale I was waiting on,
for what felt like
years.

It’s the same feeling I get now
putting my makeup on
picking what colors to wear,
checking the weather
when I reread our texts, thinking ahead
hoping against hope
this one will go better.

Every date is a rerun
a replay, the same night
by a different name
and the heartbreak feels
the same
as my stomach twists and I realize
you, again, saw this
as just a game.

Every chance
I let hope fly
like an arrow loosed from a quiver
I’ve always had an itchy trigger finger
aiming for love,
though I miss every time.

And though it hurts,
and I’m bandaged and bruised
from weeks and years
of valentine’s blues
I dust it off and try again;
one of these days,
my original will air.

“You can only fracture something
so many times
before you realize it can’t
be put back together.”

And I had my hands full of glass
before I saw
all the blood. It took too long
for me to see
what it all had become.

Solivagant,
a lonely
vapor
a single molecule of water
rising up into the sky

It wanders, to-and-fro
pushed around by
winds and whims and woes, and
prays to find another soul
and yet it continues rising.

Hopeless, the movement
repetitive, the verses
just remnants, pieces
of thoughts that are
broken and
fractured
they can't be seen by fuller eyes.

It shouts into the void
no lips, no tongue, no teeth with which
to make a sound, it
reaches out and
has no hands with which
to grasp.

And yet, still it rises
and time and time again
it comes to find
its purpose is revealed in
the end.

Remembering
you have a home, when you truly feel
you're all alone, is the hardest one to keep -
it slips away
like a father's voice, a mother's face,
a train ticket blowing away
you chase with haste.

Have trust, have faith, they all say,
those who have never had to keep pace
with the malicious apathetic whims of the wind,
as it sweeps away every dream within -

Alone, you run, missing every turn
the gps has gone out and the maps have been burned
all alone, you seem to be, rushing past deserts, empty of trees
and somehow every step you take
leads you along the path He made.

Jealousy is
a sneaky beast

With her crescent claws
and dripping fangs

She climbs her way inside your veins
a hidden threat

She sneaks inside
she nests in pain

Pretends to hide
in angry veins

Blood pumping, it's copper-tasting
lying awake

Sleepless nights of
convincing frights

Assigning fault
high as a kite

Her venom is swift, when she bites -
who tries to fight?

How could you, when it feels like she's
protecting you?

How do you fit so much meaning
into such little space?

Like all my love
in one kiss

or all the world
in mere paint.

Sometimes, as I walk
I pick up a piece of the earth
to carry it with me
mere dirt, and yet
I hold it so
carefully
as if it could break if I dropped it.

I measure its weight in the palm of my hand
and wonder if anubis would find my soul this light
and let it crumble between my fingers
and watch it stain my skin.

I wonder if, in my life
I have left any mark
as significant as that.

I feel like I have a superpower
when I descend into this empire of words
like a descent into a crypt of bones
yet it opens, like a flower, to my touch
to a world, hidden, a wonderland
of beauty, of passionate lust for
creation itself

I expect the lights to flicker
as the language tilts from my tongue
like lilting spells cast in ancient dreams
did they have power after all?
it flows over my fingertips
like honey, thick and sweet
nourishing, an ambrosia of life
and the purest of expression

vulnerability
cloaked in daggers of sharp curses
and disguised by images of broken glass
yet soft, underneath my feet, once I tread beyond the trees
I walk into the forest
and it welcomes me
it beckons me
further into the glade, I sink and
it's like slipping deeper underwater
yet I feel like I'm only breathing more air.

Lazy Sundays
after sleepless nights,

in a slump, though
nothing's done

the list is long, yet
we pause and slow,

letting the urgency flow
to return to our ways of comfort,

if only for a while
and let ourselves dream

just one night longer.

The quiet tapping of small bare feet echos from the hall,
as the door creaks open and
the smell of pancakes follow.

It's the holiday season, and later
cookies with prints from children's hands
will be baking in the oven.

The dog will need to be bathed
after rolling in the mud and snow outside
but dad will do it for me, while the kids laugh.

Morning kisses and
"see you later" hugs and
"I love you" looks and
all the little things
lying around the house
create a living scrapbook of what our family has made,
how we have grown
to fill this house, and make it our home.

I often remember, and remember fondly
how the fog rose off the surface of the water
in great tall fingers reaching for the sky-
when it was almost still night, the sun making barely a shadow
and the cool kiss of dew on my skin
from the humid air
as even the breeze had not yet awoken.

I remember how the boats and oars
looked so vibrant in their color
as that gray shroud of morning sleepiness
laid a drowsy shade over the greens and blues
with a gentle hand.

They were red and yellow
and as we glided quietly towards the sunlight,
sparkles rippling alongside the waterbugs
and I thought to myself
this all I would ever hope for.

She remembers how the coffee smelled in the morning,
and the hugs her father gave her.
Little things
like the pitter-pattering of dog paws
on linoleum floor.
It is perfect in the memory, in its simplicity
the repetition part of its beauty
and she misses it
though she knows it is a place
she cannot return to again.

We ache to find the right words,
the right way to say
something which cannot be said right at all
because once it is spoken,
it makes everything wrong
the world becomes broken
and nothing can
become right again.

I am my best friend.
I will never trust another over me again.
After the long nights
and early mornings
and long trials of back-and-forth-ing,
I have studied myself and can promise one thing:
I know me more than you do.

So if you ever begin to think
I am missing something big
come and slip a note to me -
criticism is welcome, but I will choose what I take and leave.

I have my back
I hold the line
I trust my truth and have a spine
I'll defend my reputation against those friends
who weren't friends at all, in the end.

I'd rather be "alone" than have to pretend.
I'd rather be my own best friend.

Take a break
but only if you've earned it.
Be kind to yourself,
but do not fall into the trap
of overdoing it.

Self-care
is only caring
until it isn't for the better good

Self-care
is no longer caring
if it hurts you more than it should.

So, go ahead, and take a break
take a day to go slow, and wait-
wait for the emotions to cease
until you breathe with ease
and know with certainty
you will be okay.

Then get up and don't let yourself be late
for that meeting, or coffee, or dinner date
because you deserve a life of love, not hate-
so continue living,
and if you're tired,
take a nap.

Your gut may know before your mind
the people who you hide behind
may be the ones who step aside
and let you take the bullet.

But it may not discern the tides
hidden under darkened skies
to predict the waiting lies
as they stab you in the back.

Healing from the scars, like stripes
reflecting in your tired eyes
try to wear them all with pride
and know at least you've learned.

Now you know the warning signs,
the personas people hide behind
manipulating, toxic, and blind
you won't be fooled again.

We step gently,
for few stones
are seen above the surface:

deep or shallow
no one knows
yet just one slip seems fatal.

Restrained by fear
we name it
“Patience,” keeping us alive.

Avoid our own
reflection
or maybe just stranger’s eyes.

We like the dark
shut the blinds
“ignorance is bliss,” they say.

Why take the leap,
risk it all,
on a meager shred of faith?

I hope you do.
You may find
it’s been shallow all this time.

May you blaze and
scorch the earth
of all that you do not need

so what is left
becomes more
that what you had ever dared to dream.

Sincerity is an abandoned relic
We are plagued by its scarcity,
today we cringe and shy away
from the bright light
of genuine authenticity

The shine of our own reflection
is too bright, we close our eyes
to the truth we see
in the eyes looking back
from the face in the mirror

We judge by our own standards
while judged by any but our own
We look past the tint in our own vision
unable to distinguish the vastness of colors
visible in unfurling new conversations:

We live for ourselves, selfishly
consumed by narcissistic perceptions
Perfecting our reputation, under other’s eyes
like a butterfly perfectly pinned under the glass

Yet why not live for ourselves,
but truly, as if
we were the only one left to judge in the world?
If we were freed from
this fear of sincerity-
wouldn’t you be happier, then?
Wouldn’t you
just become
you?

Isn’t there such a thrill
in knowing
I don’t have to listen to anyone
or do what they say
including myself?
“Stay in bed!” I say
“Lie down, sleep, and only sleep-“
and yet
here I am.

I can hold my own hand
to pull myself out of this grave

The shovel could be yours, or mine
But I will climb out alone.

If left alone
when unhealed
when the wounds still ferment beneath the skin
it will boil in your blood,
flood your veins
and you will suffocate
in the aloneness

But if surrounded
once you’ve healed
once you’ve scraped out the infected tissue
And the scabs cover you, growing what is new
if you are surrounded
by infection, invasive vines and flowers
with thorns in their touch
sweet scents
tinged bitter in the air
the air you breathe
you will become poisoned
and drown also

But if you heal
And escape the grasp of uncaring hands
Oh, how you can bloom

I’m suffocating
And I can feel the noose tight around my neck
Choking, gasping
I don’t recognize the hands
The skin is old, the nails *****
As if from digging out of their own grave
I reach up, and grasp
And feel the rope slipping from between my fingertips
The hands are my own
But I cannot feel
I can’t feel anything but
The bite of knife tips against my skin
Imagined, or not
I can feel it
Etching lines like
Fault lines across ceramic
I am untempered glass
On the verge, waiting to shatter
I am shattering
Shuddering, shaking
Shattered
And waiting in the silence
For when I can no longer hold my breath
The small breeze
Will blow the fragments and dust away

Healing isn't linear
It's obvious when we say it,
but it slips our mind as we are blinded
by the steep walls and cliffs
of the mountain ahead.

Cliffs waiting to be scaled
looking insurmountable
Turning to find another path
feels like turning back to quit.

Spending a night in the midst of the deep foliage,
vines twining around limbs, digging thorns into our spines
Feels not like a rest before fighting another day
but falling into a sleep that will never end.

But eventually
winding and twisting and
climbing up boulders, then
sliding back in the gravel
only to do it again
and again

The summit will appear over the edge,
and the sun will rise on your first day
on the top of the mountain
above the weight of all those memories.

You will still find thorns in your shoes
every now and then,
but you will always be able to look back
at the great mountain that you climbed
the great trials that you faced
and find pride in what you have overcome.

Does everyone feel like
Happiness requires discipline,
Or is it just me?

Truthfully, we are our actions
Not our accomplishments.
We exist in
Being
Not in doing.
In living the same day
As every day,
In having happiness in each repetition
And not trapping our contentment
Beyond the horizon,
We can finally be
Happy.

There's beauty, a peace
in discovering
tiny steps

Satisfaction in the small goals,
the close goalposts
the list of checkmarks

There is peace
In lowering the expectations
but not the goal
In lessening the pressure, the blame, that
cycle of shame
So that even if the speed slows,
it never fully stops moving

Progress
Healing
is not linear

Tiny steps
That never quit
Will overcome every setback,
Every rewind,
Every mistake
Tiny steps are what keep us moving
And faith is what takes us to the end.

I am neither here nor there, in
Limbo, my next step postponed
Stranded halfway across the river
I lean down to taste the water
It is full of salt.

Forty days and forty nights
But there is no sign of rain
Or what comes after.

I wonder if I am meant to wait for the ferryman
Or if, when the tide releases me
The path I will walk
Will lead me to Hades on my own.

Three raps on the door
Why not four?
Who comes to knock at this hour? they say
But is it late, or early?

What are you wearing?
How is the weather?
It doesn’t matter much, if you’re under a stoop
you will be sheltered from the rain
Unless, of course,
the sky is clear
But if sunlight or the moon is at your back,
I have no clue.

But you do.

Who comes to knock? they say
Who are you?

Are you merely the name you are called to?
If that, then what else are you?
Besides the names, the words,
the thoughts
others hold inside their heads

Refracted reflections of
fleeting conversations,
like passing notes
Only mere simple impressions
of the very person you spend every day,
every hour,
every minute walking alongside.

The knock comes again,
at your door.
Who are you?

Returning
is like donning an old, familiar cloak
Heavy, and somehow still warm
though it hasn’t been worn,
despite its wear,
in ages.

The years under my eyes
slip off my shoulders, like
rolling drops of rain
As decades of a different kind
settle in my mind,
Feeling like wisdom might
though it could just as well be
simple vanity.

I imagine myself to be
different,
Not arrogant enough to envision
what I ought to be,
But merely something better, at least
than what the mirror sees.

I avoid looking at my reflection.
I hold my breath
like plunging under water
when I turn to face the miles remaining
that I must tread
a second time.

The ice, that ice-
It chills me to the bone
As I sink under,
it freezes my lungs
and paralyzes the breath inside them-

And yet, I pull the coat around me tighter,
smelling of mothballs from the back of the closet
digging my nails into the fur fabric
I force my eyes to open.

Beyond the darkness I imagined,
there is, of course, still light:
From between my lashes, I glimpse myself
and find I am still, no longer trembling-
And though I am not beautiful,
and even this curious look
somehow exposes every piece of me
which lacks perfection
And I remember what it used to be
And

I take a breath,
I let the surface of the water calm.
I reach deep inside for comfort,
and meet the small voice
who trusts I can return there again.
Maybe I will be wiser the second time around.

How much does it take to grow,
and change?
How much does it take to stay open?

Time, effort, pain -
People will only believe you
if you can prove it hurt to get there

But to not become jaded
To avoid the tarnish that comes with
washing, scrubbing the dirt from under your nails
a thousand times over

Remember to polish and shine
preserve the tenderness in your soul
Keep your heart open and kind
even as you gain strength to protect your own.

You have my whole heart
I can’t believe I found all the pieces
broken off over the years
to give to you.
Don’t make me regret it,
my love.

Everything we love, we will lose
The deeper it binds, the deeper it cuts
Should we not love a sunrise
because it is lost once the sun sets?
Look away from the beauty
So we are not as chilled, being left
in the dark, cold and alone?

No,
I can assure you
It is far better to see and be burned
than to never feel warmth at all.

They say there are meanings to the different colors
The ones she sends are red.
Because she loves with her whole heart,
with nothing left to spend.

It comes with no expectations
No subscript between the lines.
Genuine and honest,
simple love:
vulnerable and kind.

I don’t know how I’m going to die
but I don’t mind.
If it was sent in a letter
it’d be left unopened, and marked
return to sender.

I don’t need to know the way
the twists and turns coming ahead
the fraying and tearing of fabric
being fed into the loom

I will know only what is in front of me
and trust the enjoyment I have is enough.

Lean on the day in your hands
because it is the only one like it you will ever get to see.