Another cigarette in bed,
another sleepless night.
The cats have prowled,
the mice are dead,
and still I dread the light.

There's a blood moon in those eyes
by your heart shaped tattoo
and if an eclipse was for wishing,
I think I'd wish for you
I'll walk through your desert
to your river of sorrow
fill my cup with your tears
and drink through tomorrow
No stranger to poison,
no stranger to sin
I'll let you get up
and fall down again
Just please know, my darling,
those thoughts are untrue
this may be your darkness
but I'll walk next to you

"That seems so very far away," you said.
And it is; we have both time and distance pushing us apart.
But they say that time is a river,
and all rivers must find a larger body of water to pour into,
like an ocean,
the one that stands between us, the stagnant blood
inside our bodies.
You said you will hibernate until I wake you, or even better,
until I lie next to you and your eyes open to the rise and fall of my chest.

Let us sleep away these long months,
let us close ourselves to autumn, so it will seem as though we had been together
the whole time, and are finding one another in those foggy morning hazes,
while the rain falls softly against the glass of your windows,
and the house is silent with the sleep of others.

We will pull on our wool sweaters and scarves and
walk along the river, hand in hand, laughing
at the pain we create when we are apart.

As a child I was taught poetry
the quiet writing of feelings reflections
often in a beat with a rhyme and a few examples of alliteration

I was taught that as a woman my feelings
should be hid and kept quiet
that when I liked a boy it was not my place
to ask him whether he liked me back
I was taught to look out for myself by not dressing slutty
not walking home late at night
I was taught that my curvy figure would make people
question my morals my virginity my character
I was taught that as a girl I won't be as successful in math or science
I was taught to give myself to other pursuits
in liberal arts or domestic dealings
I was taught that even if by some miracle I found success in the fields where I "wouldn't be successful"
that I would and should give it up in a heart beat to raise a family
I was taught that I must share my feelings
my emotions my struggles
but not in a loud and open way

I had to remain quiet cool composed

Poetry was to be my outlet, written in couplets sonnets and verse
quiet and held inside written on paper
stored away from the world
to be read inside the mind
by others- men, teachers, parents
in order to decode me
and learn how to
keep
me

silent

I once met a captain, three yards from the sea
In a tavern where only true sailors should be
This captain questioned if I was a We
"No," I replied, "I am both lonely and free."
He, too, could relate to a life in this way
His comfort came from the boat's gentle sway
And time held nothing but day after day
Yet my smile, he said, kept his ship at bay.
The captain, filled with both warmth and fear
Watched our faces in the tavern's mirror
Sadly, and tenderly, he declared it was clear
I was the shipwreck into which he would steer.

Her name was Holiday. 

She smelled of pine,

and her eyes,

Glistened like the snow and ice 

That blankets the lanes

keeping the families stuck inside. 

Her voice was angel,

And she sang songs that only

Angels could hear. 

She told stories that only taught

Families what it really meant to be a 

Family, 

And what it really meant to give and 

Be grateful. 

Her hands were soft.

Her stature, so much grace. 

She had a way with warming up 

The cold

Like mittens you give to children

Or at least that’s what we’re told

In the fairy tales
that we will tell 

Our children before bed

On those December nights

When the cold freezes over the windows,

But the wood stove is

Still roasting.