Grab a feather
                                            Open your soul.

Grab some paper
                                         Make it your own.

And a small feather
                                             Shall be a brush,

And a small paper
                                        Your poems' canvas.

Don't call me pretty

I am not pretty

I am a warrior molded from hot iron

Beaten down to conform to a shape

To conform to a number

To conform to a scale

I forgave the people who ripped me apart

I crawled tooth and nail out of the ashes that trapped me

I get up every morning with a purpose to change

So don't call me pretty

Because I am so much more

I wish I could pull
all the sad out of you
through your chest
And fill up
the empty spaces
With flowers

Chrsanthymum Cardiac Tissue
Your whole heart
plastered
In every
pretty petal
Translucent silk bandages


Roots that twine veins
An entire botanical garden of happy
Blooming
in your bloodstream

Steam pavement
Lightening sunset
Daisy roadside
Headlight wanderer

Back road choices
Static state
Ultimate discovery
A whispers chance

Tormented tiptoe
Mirror discussion
The moon's promises
Tarnished sunrise

Ropes of ivy
Twilight cheekbones
Iris lips
Conversational soul