Troll be leery, troll beware
Troll we'll find Thee anywhere
In the toilet, neath the stairs
Anywhere Thee's rancor glares

Troll be leery, troll beware
Troll we'll find Thee anywhere
Laughing at Thee's haughty airs,
Boastful  words… but no one cares

Troll be leery, troll beware
Troll we'll find Thee anywhere
Faced with words where talent flares,
Leaves Thee startled, unawares

Troll be leery, troll beware
Troll we'll find Thee anywhere
In Thee prate or in Thee prayers
Be forewarned, our patience wears

She sleeps as I watch her breathe
Looking so small in her railed bed
I think of smiles and laughs and lessons
Dreams wrapped up in things she said

So, I pray and wish for many more
As we so selfishly often do
And give my blessing to send her home
The strongest woman I ever knew

The tide charged in deeply, taking all that was never there for the asking.
Desecrated sanctity let flow scarlet rivers while the moon tied her tongue and the sand dried her tears.
A heaven of weeping constellations dimmed as she rose, this shaken child, silent and mourning, her innocence torn and bloodied by this fierce current that knew not her name.
She wept a tear of farewell, her eyes faded in acceptance of a fate once warned. Stumbling, ragged, once hallowed now hollow, she dared not ask why of the moonlit wind as it blew her homeward, to be forever the keeper of secrets.

I wrote a poem for my English class and my teacher said he didn't like it.

I wasn't mad because I got a bad grade, I was mad because what if I wasn't strong enough to look past his opinion and keep writing? What if that one negative comment made me quit altogether and never share a single word again?

What if he ruined my future because he couldn't look past his idea of what a poem should be?

A poem does not have to rhyme or end with closure or even make sense to everyone who reads it.

A poem simply has to reach part of someone's soul who had no idea that these were the words they had been waiting to hear and these were the words that were meant to save them.

This is what a poem is, not a grade from a teacher or a rhyme in a book. A poem is a method of coping and a way to understand the world with ease.

I wrote a poem for my English class and my teacher said he didn't like it. But I am stronger than he thinks, and I will continue to write poems that he does not like and I will continue to love them in spite of his opinion.

I wish I could tell you all the things that make me small and cloud my vision with too much dark. I long to tear the words from my throat, to cast light onto the syllables that cause my heart to flounder.


I have cried a million tears since the day of my passing, none of which have begun to erode the stone in which my fears are set. They are chiseled too deeply into the lonely tomb that holds my sometime smile.


I wish I could tell you of all the things that make me small, I wish I could share my darkest dreaming and not fear the cloud of judgement that will settle upon your brow as it steals my breath and breaks my heart.


I can only love you and hope that it's enough.

I long for the soft swaying of the boat,
the calls of howlers nearby, signaling the
oncoming of another heat-ridden shower,
a sweet taste of red wine on my lips
while I watch as he stands on the bow,
the wind brushing hair from his eyes
as the rain begins to trickle down,
a nearby camel rushes for cover
beneath its sturdy shelter, and I wonder
if this is what peace feels like

my thoughts drift away
to the soft brown hues
of your hair beneath sunlight,
times
when your best friend
was down the hall to the right,
and those
nights
full of laughter
as campfire sparks
singed my hair, secret
moments
where the rumble of your voice
sung in my ear and
your intoxicated bedroom eyes-
I touch your scar and remember
not all scars can be seen, but
the beat of your heart
against my bare skin reminds me
we are not broken souls beneath
twilight stars, but
one soul beating with a singular heart
awaiting the oncoming dawn

radio playing, laughter transforms
into screams, metal crunching and
closing in, a flash of red hair,
or is it blood

the smell of dirt and smoke,
hands pull me from the wreckage,
covered in crimson water that
is not my own

            searching eyes and choked shrieks,
            where are they, where are-

face-down, still, twisted into
unnatural positions, unconscious,
the deafening screams are my
own, falling to my knees

helpless, seeing red but not in
anger, somewhere an ambulance
arrives, parents and bystanders
watch with unwavering fear

            they scream for their mother, and
            she is not breathing anymore-

uncontrollable shaking, a breath is
finally taken, but the battle is not won,
rushing, bright lights, tears and mud
staining my cheeks

she can only see shadows, his neck
is broken, another scream, a phone goes
off in the next room, a man in uniform
takes my hand and doesn't let go