I'm running along the tracks.
The geese fly against the climate in arrow packs.
My meandering thoughts won't hit the brake.
The river beside me seems to understand my
thoughts because its rhythm is roaring.
The tears fall down on the window of my face.


The train is moving fast.
I'm running on this stammering
track to escape my past.
My head is steaming.
This heart of mine is
desperately chugging along.
My mind cries full speed ahead.
The soul would helplessly
rather rest instead.


I hum a song to keep my body strong.
These legs are burning coals but
the train sounds its final warning.
The engine sings run a long, run a long or
this may be your final song.


My running dilemma derails before
the train screeches to a stop.
Dreams of glee are worth having in a
lonely tree house.
Money only paves the streets
of emptiness.
After all there isn't grass
on the other side.
Where the famous always try to hide.


Triumph is already stressed in
the lines of my face.
Rewards are traced in Gods grace.
Do you hear the blood running
through my veins?
It congratulates me for winning
my life's deadly race.

Desperation *****
more than anyone knows.
Yet It feels like NO one ever
experiences it except you.
Depression high fives
it as it dives down.
Desperation makes me feel
like never needing friends.
Which isn’t true.
Yet it also makes me feel like
I have too many friends.
Which also isn’t true.
It makes me feel like
blocking myself.
If only there was a vacation
to factory reset.
Probably too many people would
jump on that ride.
Everyone has desperation though
even if they don’t know it.
They might know it but
they don’t care to admit it.

My rain is turning into hail.
You stand next to me.
Yet I can't see you.

You always inspire me.
Yet I can't hear you.

You break the heart in me.
Yet I can't feel you.

You have no name.
Yet I look for it.

Some how you always comfort me.
Yet I still need you.

Your my invisible man.
Only God can make you appear.
Love should evaporate my fear.

Until I meet you my mind
will be on  repeat.
My heart is a drum
that can hardly beat.

Please say my hopes will
rise from concrete.
Or I shall be alive but
gradually forgotton.
I shall be an
invisible woman.

Tattoos and dyed hair.
They collect dust in your dreams.
Popularity plays a duet with loneliness.
Isolation surfs on sighs and smiles.
You pull out the car breaks of your bitterness.
There’s always one more wire that you missed.
Your castles fold into a cardboard box then it all collapses.
Popularity is an antique that’s broken.
You no longer want it fixed.
Where is the syringe of cringe when you need it?
Why do you not want attention anymore?
So now you know why your younger
self doesn’t want anything to do with you anymore.
Goodbye.

She dyed her hair pink & green.
Most people want her not to be heard or seen.
A girl too ignored to be a normal teen.
A syringe has collapsed the
creativity in her soul.
Everyone criticizes this rebel Queen.
Yet they all wonder why she can't behave.
They don't see her trying to be brave.
The taunting has made tradition seem foolish.

She shouldn't find peace in cutting.
God needs to heal the scars in her soul.
Everyone should pray for her and not
give her sour advice.
People give her warm stares that turn into ice.
This could freeze her dreams.
She stands in blue jeans with ripped up seams.
Hardships muffle her screams.
An Orphan needs a home without
moving boards or beams.
Everythings make believe in her
mind because no one ever takes the time.


Will God give someone the courage
to look at her ignored heart.
She doesnt want to be on a statistics chart.
Her appearance begs for filial love to start.
Change her but don't tear her apart.
Her creativity shouldn't be choked
like kudzu in a flower garden.
Tattooing is her preferred art.
She needs to learn to use it
in other ways besides tearing
out the car breaks.
Love turns into tragedy because
everyone leaves.


Shes been ignored.
Her feelings have been stored.
Tears have not been answered.
Smiles are forced.
Permanent homes are highly priced.
God needs to change their hearts.
Please don't judge her
by the rebal Facade.
Someday she will be loved because
theres more to her than just pink and
green dye.

I'm going to wrap a herd of
Kentucky Rainbows together.
I won't let them fly from
my arms like gauzed  gazelles.

The man who butchers
butterflies sold full ears to me.
He planted them when he
thought he was a heirloom.

These bushels of corn were
wrapped in rainbow when born.
Now if I go on vacation Im torn
because I need to plant soon

Now he wants to plant rotten
rose gardens in bloom.
He won't get married  in a
field of Kentucky  Rainbows.

I can't wait to pull kernals
of Rainbows like teeth.
I can plant them out side
my barn the size of an ark.

I sit by the door feeling
rich shucking my Rainbows.
I'll feel safe if I can plant rows
of corn able to resist a flood.

I used to think chastity
was a five year old who
knew nothing about ***.
The kind of innocence
I longed for as an adult too much.
Now a ****** who knows everything.
I still hate that to this day.
Yet what’s wrong  with
a tiger striped dove?
Fight in the flight or visa versa.
A lot of people in our culture
view purity as something *****.
Yet a lot of people in our culture
view the ****** as way too cool.
Where is the balance?
There has got to be one.
Chastity to me is staying
true to the one you love.
There is so much more!

Kindness
was a house.

Knitted by
knowing you.

It was made
of sticky notes.

Encouragement
aching for actions.

Friendship
is the fuel.

Hearts only
in its windows.

Looks didn’t
really matter.

A firm foundation
invisible.

Gates of wisdom
walk to it.

Depression
laughed at it.

Gossip galloped
away from it.

The golden rule
knew better.

A mermaid with
a tail made of a lilac.

The largest
you’ve ever seen.

Her *******
made of two lilacs.

Her eyes have
fern sunglasses.

Her hair an
ocean of sun
as she floated
down the lake.

Her fingers
spinning the whirl
under the raindrops.

She sang softly
about how she
once saved ophelia.

All the people
screamed with horror
as they beheld her.

Yet it wasn’t her
that they feared.

It was the
flood rising up out of
the mist like a fist.

All the bees
trying to hold it back
did so in vain.

Butterflies moving
the hands of a
grandfather clock.

They’re just
hoping they can
change times mind.

If time
could hug them
they’d love it.

They ache
for attention.

The grandfather
clock opens
his stomach.

He spits out
all the wrong
words.

Letters without
sentences.

Butterflies just
long for simplicity.

Yet they’re
stuck in beauty.

In their wings
are fences
locked forever.

The Victorian
house fell down around
them long ago.

If only spring
had influenced all
the other seasons.

raindrops of stars
asked the sun what
it was laughing about.

The sun says
nah you’ll think it’s
way too ridiculous.

If I told you
the impossibility of it
would possess you.

You’d never
see me in the same
light again.

Oh just tell them
before you spit out the
ocean from laughing.

The stars surrounded
the sun so close.

The sun began
to say the giraffe walks
In the woods everyday.

If you look
close enough you’ll see
that she is wearing
cowboy boots.

If you look long
enough you’ll see
they’re slithering
up her ankles.

She knocks
down trees like
they’re domino’s.

Her heart is like
a jellyfish trying to escape as
she looks all around.

She does not
know about me but she’s
trying not to be found.

They lost their
crowns and
became just pins.

A butterfly
sneaking up on
a conch shell.

They’re just
looking for a
safe space.

They begin to
just curl on in.

They feel like
pencil shavings.

The conch
shell begins to
grow icicles.

It’s from just
being stuck.

Empathy and
sympathy
in a bind.

The conch
shell on
the edge.

Just poking up
out of a mountain.

A butterfly kissing
it’s ceiling.

Just trying
not to be peeling.

The Golden
Gate Bridge
is a harp.

It’s one
for a giant.

Yet the harp has
never been played.

If it would the
sound would shine.

Everyone would
hear it all
over the world.

The bridges ropes
turning to a line of
raindrops though.

Rush hour
would agree.

The fish long
to be free.

The butterflies
are blind.

Stars fly through
like sand.

Trees reaching
towards it.

Yet no one
hears the pulse
of a promise.

She was doing
intricate footwork on her figure
skates behind bars.

Her whole
audience had their
eyes closed.

She conducted their
hearts with her hands.

Her hair flew
like music notes as
she did an axel.

Her figure skates
were like violins.

Her blades were
like the bow.

A lullaby sleep
walked on her tongue.

Her layback spin
was like a tuba scratching
roses into the ice.

Her spiral sailed
through the rink
like a guitar.

She gave you
a feeling like her program
was never ending.

The octopus with
rosebud eyes.
Sparklers shooting
through its pores.
A head with an
opening like an iris.
You move each
tentacle against the
wave like it’s a harp.
You threaten to
turn into fish scales.
You stand
on your head.
So when I fly by.
You look like a sea star.
The waves try
not to open you
like an umbrella.
I sit trying
not to throw out
my philosophy
with the bath water.

A rose in
a dandelion of water.

A fairy sleeping in
the handle of a tea cup.

Her straw hat casting
rain drop shadows.

She tosses and turns
like she’s in a hammock.

She frowns with her
aurora borealis hair.

Her dress of tv static
blows in the wind.

The tablecloth of armor
claps as you sit down.

Inspirational quotes written
in blue on the tea cup.

She has never read them.

You can’t read them either.

She was a little girl
with star prints all over her
long wavy hair.

The words
tattooed all over her skin
were nonsense.

Her storybook was
the size of her roof.

The only thing
holding everything together
was her imagination.

The older she
got everything faded
or became tiny.

Star prints turned
to ashes in her gray hair.

Her storybook
was as tiny as
a piece of rice.

Everyone could
read the words
tattooed on her skin.

So everything
became way too hidden.

Yet imagination
was still somewhere
deep inside.

She just has to
fight all the aura of
the horror harder.

The giraffe walking
through the sand.

He’s trying not to sink.

He blows out  

bubblegum that
looks like jellyfish.

He caught
a dreadful sight.

A snake
strangling a starfish.

He wanted to
do something for it.

Instead he just
stood there like
a mast on a ship.

An ocean wave
swallowed the
starfish and snake
like a vitamin.

Later when the
giraffe was sleeping
the starfish crawled up
and down his back.

The back of a
turtle is a
dream catcher.

The biggest I’ve
ever seen.

There are no
holes in it.

So the dreams
cannot get out.

Cobweb carving
on his back.

The turtle walks
in its sleep.

His head and
legs like cactus.

He spins
through the sand.

He feels like
a skipped rock.

The wind
will not mock.

A woman walks
down the street as children
throw mud at her.

Her mouth a trench.

Her head shaved.

She’s hardly dressed.

No one dares look
in her eyes though.

There are dreams
there that children
are jealous of.

The houses are
round like thimbles.

Steam pours out
like coffee cups.  

The shutters stick
out like birds beaks.  

The wind shuffles
the houses about.

Some of the
houses tip over.

You’ll be guessing
in vain though.

There are no
souls underneath.

Only bodies in
dresses and tuxedos.

You should never
write at night.

The tunnel then
is often too tight.

You’ll experience
an awful fright.

You might have to
give up your sight.

It’s easier to be
positive in the light.

You taunt with
all your might.


No ones allowed to cut
up anyone out of spite

Your sighs fly
lower than a kite.

So no matter what time
you were right to write.

She sold
her teeth.

She sold
her hair.

Now she’s
only a tunnel.

No one knows
what’s left.

She has only
one concern.

There’s
kindness there.

Buried six
feet deep.

She can’t
look anymore.

The streets
before her
seem to shuffle.

Are there
souls underneath
those roofs?

Can you guess
for just a buck?

All the
houses tip over.

There isn’t
a single soul underneath
but loads of bodies.