Sometimes I'd walk,
walk far from home,
the things I've seen,
and I alone.

hearts
falling like
shells
blasted
to find
love brandished
as a weapon
held tight
as a warm gun
convection's heat
from the
barrel of passion
searing
the handle
of emotion

You
           2. Monsters under the bed
      3. Being alone in the dark
           4. Spiders

5. I have to be medicated to appear even
                                                     remotely ordinary
          6. Being followed
     7. Tiny holes in leaves
          8. Feeling calories go down my throat

9. Strong men and greasy boys
         10. *You

The ***** of my eyelids fall,
delicately dripping onto my cheekbones,
powdered, ripe with a pink flush,
matching the creamy pigment I smooth
between my lips before a cacophony
of laughter runs up my throat and out
my mouth. My lashes, black, have been curled
neatly in a spiral that follows my green irises,
my gaze landing on your hands—
but that’s not it.

Just know, I am more than a pretty face.
I am more than the picture you have in your head
of the clothes peeling off my body
like a cocoon—watch me morph—
in the dead of your blackness, calling sweetness
to the surface. I am more than this exaltation.
I am more than the late night phone calls
or the kisses on your cheek.
I am in the breath you lost when I smiled, and I

am in the scratches on your back, the fickle
end of the lock you latched. I am in the noise
that fuzzes in your head, the empty space
haunting you in your bed. I am more
than what you expected—
but that’s not it.

I am also the beat behind these words, the puddle
that gathers from the spill on the floor. I am the mind
that molds. I am the truth that finds. I am the beginning
of every bitter end. I am more than a pretty face.
I am the exhale at the end of the race. Here I am.
I am the kind of hurt that’s still sore, and one day
I am going to be so much more.

More moisture helps
the ******* of dirt
become a purification element.
The hydro-logic behind that
is completely fluid
and misunderstood.

Water is much like a brain—
it makes these connections
between polarizing elements
that will take eons
to arrive at a universal understanding
of how or why they were made.

As poets we work with the earth
to try and make sense of things—
like why exactly the purest form
of water is shed from the soil
that springs with infinite life.

The single most important aspect
of connections that contribute
to the everlasting growth of meaning
is that it's right beneath our feet,
which is probably why we
continually walk right over it.

What springs from the soils surface
is a constant cycle
of unearthing meaning.
Which is why there will never be
a shortage in the supply
of what provides us with life.

The pillow kisses my face
As I only wish you could

Scratching my head
And my thoughts
With this fine lead
Thinking I ought
To quit already
It doesn't do too much
Good