We are the women that bleed prufiously unto our dresses in the form of tears
The women that disturb the winds with their feral screams
The same women you love, yet deny

They say the grass is greener
On the other side
Which makes me wonder what color grass they see
When they look at mine

People are never satisfied
with their token hue,
gardens perceive many views 'neath blue moons
yet still seek to plant their own rose colored seeds


But with the hand of seed comes a heart in need
To plant where they will thrive
And when we look at our lives deep
We see a parched land much too dry


Upgrading new playgrounds 'tween picket transplants
only proves to drain emotional fence posts,
there's no satisfaction in elevation's turf ventures
proof grows amuck the dark sod of every plot perused

it is cold seeping in my bones
and hot air on a summer's day
it is warm excitement and carefully calculated disinterest:
all at the same time

it is confusion,
joy and resignation,
mixed together in a melting ***
made of the last rays of hope filtering in

I can almost hear
The hot sun on my skin.
Cold ice on my lips.
Watching my legs sway back and forth.


The whole world's upside down.
Holding that sight,
I can see birds in their nest.
Singing along with the wind.


Sweat.
Sunglasses.
And Sun Burns.


Oh the sweet summer days.
Bringing me back to the good o'l days.