Clinging to what's left,
The debris of us,
Floats down the calmed delta mouth,
A night of turbulent storms,
Has laid waste to our ship, "Golden Heart,"
Mighty was she, but no match,
For the storm of lies that welled up,
The waves carelessly consumed us whole,
You steered us right into the storm,
Instead of running you faced it head on,
Ramon, a formidable captain with the best of intentions,
Chose poorly that night,
Yes, he'd sailed that course a-plenty,
Assuming we could skip port and rest...
But this night was different,
The air was abnormally still,
I questioned the Captain's choices,
I too had sailed these waters,
I'd seen these types of clouds before,
I'd smelled this still and seemingly calm air,
A maelstrom of despair, doubt, and, anger
Violently rocked her,
We couldn't keep the sails,
The mast snapped like a twig,
We were at the black water's mercy now,
Two beloved crew members float lifelessly face down
Their skin, pale and bruised from the rocks,
Which tore into the ship's bow,
The black water, now satiated,
Basks in the afterglow of our destruction,
The warm golden sun rise brings no comfort,
It illuminates the debris of us, laughing in our faces,
The ship is gone,
We managed to lash together a few jagged pieces of love-red deck,
She was beautiful, a pain to navigate, but beautiful nonetheless,
All that's left of her are us,
Clinging to each other with calloused hands,
Cold, damp, exhausted, and bitter,
A waterfall is up ahead,
Nothing but a few pieces of rope and broken wood,
Stand between us and the jagged rocks below...

Goldenrod in bloom
Bunny hopping through the woods
Acorns fall from oak

*~Marian~

The writer's life
Consists of looming strife
For a writer's eyes are keen
To the suffering that usually goes unseen

All writers are bearers of truth
Wielding their pens like a scalpel that cuts through
All the **** we tell ourselves
That keeps us in denial

A writer seeks truth incessantly
And eventually comes upon the somewhat ambiguous answer
That all truth originates from Love
How does the writer's analytical mind
Grapple with such a fluid concept?

The writer sees beauty in the invisible
Writes poetry on bathroom stalls
Lives life solely for stories
The writer feels things deeply but doesn't speak them,
But rather scribbles her thoughts fervently in a notebook
The words dancing on the page
As they are released from the tip of the pen
The writer knows, sadly, that even though she writes stories to make people feel less alone
That these people will never truly ever understand her and neither will
She ever be able to fully embody the experience of another human

The writer has wounds that go deeper than you could fathom
When no one was there to turn to,
She picked up a notebook instead and released the toxic emotional build-up in her head
Made art out of her sadness on the page
Through poetic words,
Elusive and enigmatic,
She could tell her story, indirectly
And still set herself free from the ******* of unspoken miseries

The writer's life is a privileged one indeed
For we see things, but don't speak them
But rather transcribe them forever in our memories
Until we find a clean sheet of paper,
And write
Write everything we've seen, heard, tasted, felt, known and intuited
Every struggle and every victory
Meticulously crafted upon the bare canvas
Like a war zone with an abundance of pent up zest
Finally unleashing itself upon the page
So, write, my fellow Writers
Write fearlessly
And our stories will prevail
They will impact even just one person
Who thought they were all alone,
Perhaps like we once felt.

monsters under my bed
monsters in my mind
masters in my head
whispering to me blind

voices that are gone
come back to remind

my heart begs to mourn
afraid of what my eyes will find

the silence begins to roam
and i'm back in rome
on a colossal tide

travelling back and forth
between love and loath

i'd rather have them both
open my scars fresh and wide

in a room so silent
where sound travels
faster than light

here darkness resides
in lust and fright

wandering all night
with stars to hide

photos to like
memories have lied

to all those who have died

since past

when it all began
with plight

of all those who have cried
but died

yet, i want to be there still
wide open
when a lonely heart
begins to beat

begging to be free
but in a delusion
that cold is just
absence of heat

give me a pill to be enlightened
and i'll set fire to every thing

for the chaos is
just a form of silence
some thing's aren't
meant to breed

so, have you been
in a thought so violent
that everything around
starts to bleed

filling the emptiness
with opulence
a forest made up
of lonely seeds

ready to feed, steady and asleep
in this silence
you can taste the essence
of the universe rearing to be free
telling tales
of men and monsters

and of everything that came to be

this moment before the real one,
you know,
when you're preparing for an ending,
or maybe a beginning,
same difference anyways, right?

i have waited so many moments to
get to this one,
only to realize it's the first moment
of many while waiting for the next one

i find myself jumping into each
without much hesitation,
but the trick isn't showing up,
it's being present