Here I am, the smallest fire.
Too cool for spark to light desire.
Libido, just fond memory.
I simply lack the energy.

Here I am, the faintest whisper.
Too soft to stir the eager mind.  
A meagre void. A hollow blister.
A structure of the softest kind.

Here I am, the thinnest stream.
Too sparse to nourish fertile land.
Wishing to make worlds of difference,
But much too weak to lend a hand.

Here I am, an open wound.
Too lacking life to ever mend.
Cover me in cloak and shadow,
And let my weary mind pretend.

another black coffee
to chase away the
nightmares
of lingering hands and
***** soaked breath

it was another life
in daylight
but as the sun goes down
it fills every inch of me

not just a memory, a moment
silence is power when you have none
and sleep is a Hell when you
had none

Lake view from
Beech canopy.

Legs, arms, enwrap
Broad trunk and
Ascend unlike any bird since
Dodo.

Sun through beaten
Coppered leaf-set.

Fair Day
With tall grass,
Bedded moss beneath

My seat of rooted
Contemplation

i went back at twenty-three,
to the school that survived me.
the rebel, the headache,
the girl who wouldn’t listen —
and thought of this building
as being trapped in a cage.

it felt like coming home.
my teacher grinning wide,
filling me with warmth,
hugging me from the side
during the memorial,
as if the teenagers on stage
weren’t reciting poems
about the war.

he kept leaning in,
whispering jokes
of old times.
shushing didn’t work –
i was secretly glowing
in their unexpected pride.

they called me the proof.
an example, that
the troubled can bloom.
but all i could think
was how they loved me
through my worst,
and still do.