your wild hair
is just a little
glimpse of who
you are,
it tells me
that your heart
and your dreams
and soul
are just as wild
as those locks
of yours
you are lovely
and free
and brave
and
your heart finds
life in color
and boldness
and who you are,
wildflower,
makes you beautiful.

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my *******,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I've always known that I can't write happy poems
happy poems are inspiring.
happy.
unsure.
a fantasy.
and there's something about insincerity that disrupts the beauty of poetry

so I write about pain, and wounds, and melancholy
I write about it so often that I have become fluent in the language of depression
I can tell you the whole history of every scar
and I can show how crippled my heart has become

but I can't tell you the last time I was happy
or if I was ever happy.
happiness feels so foreign in my mouth
but the thorns in my throat feel like home.
a broken and dysfunctional home,
but home nonetheless.

so keep this in mind, beloved one,
I would love you with my broken heart
but it would never change the number of poems I would want to write when I look at you.

you are the sky
and your smile is the sun
and i hope every day
to see the sunrise on your skin,
to see your lips dance
as you let the light in
you are the sky
and your eyes are the stars
and i wish upon them every night.

Images extracted from
the tapestry of my dreams.
Sewn intricate...
Into a patchwork.

A quilt,
embroidered with lavish sequins and ornate beads.
Bringing forth fantastical motifs...
A dazzling display
upon the backdrop of my dreamscape.

Yet...
This mosaic of dreams
does not warm me so.
It never lasts.

They fall away like autumn leaves
come the dawning sun.
They get washed out and pulled into the tide,
as the waves beat upon the shore of wakefulness.
They fade into fragmented memories
that make no sense...
Incoherent and disjointed.

Eventually, they disappear...
For they do not belong
in a world of worldly things
and ticking clocks.
Their intangible and mismatched nature
render them inconsequential...
Naturally...
They get misplaced.

But I am stubborn.

I will fashion such a blanket.
One that skirts the boundary
of this realm and the other.

I will tailor it so...

So that...
I will sleep tonight,
swaddled tight and cocooned within its
glorious seams.
Tucked within the safety and warmth of
this blanket...
Woven immaculate...
Out of
worldly things and breathtaking dreams.

you say that when i’m skinny
i’ll be pretty,
but don’t you see that now
i smile easily,
and my eyes look like the stars?
don't you see that my laughter
sounds like a song,
and my feet are lighter
and nothing weighs me down?
you say i will be pretty,
but don’t you see that i already am,
that i always have been?
don’t you see i am much more than
pretty,
that i am someone with dreams,
with hope and light?