I don't go to church
Nor do I want to.
I don't believe
In anything in particular.
And yet the word god
Shows up in my poetry like it's put there intentionally.
It isn't.
Perhaps it is just that god
Is a perfect metaphor for how I love
And in trying to explain it,
The zeal of religion is the best comparison I can think of.
In fact
It makes me wonder,
If we are in god's image,
Is god
Like us?
Maybe that is why our prayers are seldom answered-
Maybe whatever god there is
FEARS us, for loving it so devotedly.
Maybe god is not dead.
Maybe god has fled.

eight hours is all it takes, i guess
to erase the cobwebs from beneath my eyes
and today i kept reaching up
with shaking, caffeinated fingers
to softly press the skin there
and feel the bruises disappearing
as sleep became less of a constant ache
and more of a comfort

eight hours still seemed impossible
and yet here i am, awake and able
to close my eyes without slipping into grey
able to stand up on solid legs
without fear of buckling and falling

i'm just taking it all in, all these nights
that i have spent wisely
because the countdown in my head
tells me that soon enough, i'll be back
to my old ways, dazed and euphoric
as two or three hours try to rub the shadows
away from my eyelashes
and i will once again be painting my skin each morning
into clarity

i will once again be hiding
behind a curtain of half-lives
and half-lies
and i will once again ignore the need
digging dull nails into my palm
to keep myself in sync

i'm just taking it all in, all these nights
that have brought me back to life
savouring each moment
while the countdown echoes in my head
and the spiders are waiting, ready
to spin their cobwebs again

My Soul has fallen in love with Sorrow
they make love and call it poetry.
My Spirit thinks he has overstayed his welcome.

sun shone down
moon broke away
and spring became a possibility

i spent time wandering the halls
of my mind and my body, up and down
my veins
until i found the oxygen

today i dug my nail into the knuckle
of my pinky finger
for an hour
because without the pain
i kept sliding into grey
amid a room of voices
that i knew i had to listen to

and it's ok, i mean the mark is barely there
but that clarity scared me

i think i'd rather fall asleep
than rely on crushing hard into soft
dead into alive
just to prove dead is alive
no matter how it may feel when untouched

and i have been left untouched for days
so when my heartbeat made itself known today
i was afraid, and i wish i knew
why

sun hid behind the clouds
moon ate at the sky
until there was nothing left

We either become sadder
Or our heart beats become louder
My heart,
My heart is eating so fast my bones are tingling
Vibrating through my veins
My blood stream is failing
I think too much
I don’t pray enough
Lost touch with the angels
The angels lost me
Forgetting this
Words are words by choice
Awkwardly complicated
Passionate souls intertwined in chaos
Beautiful chaos
My hands are shaking, they can’t stand still
I overdo it with coffee, I over did it.
Can’t handle my life sober
So much ****** up **** in the world
Smart people seem like crazy people to dumb people
And if you believe you can change the world
You’re one of a kind.

I am a contradiction
But I am not

I am shadowed
By a cloud of mystery
My intentions
Are as clear as glass

My soul
Is captured and dark
My soul
Is pale and free

I believe in the things
That don't make sense
I don't believe in the things
That do

I find my heart
A tide of feelings
And then empty
At the next heart beat

I believe in love
And being ruined by its power
I doubt its existence
And demand happiness and freedom
In its stead

I want all the words
Rhyming with reason
The meanings
Echoed in my favourite words
Defy logic
Exclusively

I savour
The feeling of a shattered heart
Held against a stilling chest
The knowledge it brings
I demand
With avid recklessness
The happiness I remember
Before
After
It comes
Longing for the knowledge
Of my tear's absence

I am broken
I am not
I disagree with my soul

He said he liked her style
and her pianist fingers.
She told him that he could paint her
onto canvas, in shades
of cinnamon and ivory.

He laughed at her trembling hands
as she sat there, dressed in naught
but peonies and wild roses.
She scowled at his impudence
and then laughed
at the absurdity of it all.

She sat there and he told her
hold still
with a smile that flashed
across his eyes like quicksilver.

She watched him create poetry
with strokes of umber and chartreuse,
cerulean and scarlet.
He pulled the shadows from her eyes
and placed them into a fixed state of being.

She watched the metamorphosis of scars
into moonlit fault lines and
freckles into blips of smooth paint.

He transformed her pale outline
into a sensuous display of smooth gradients
and colors deep enough to make men weep.
He captured the penumbra of sorrow
and spread it across her painted eyes.

As he anointed the canvas
with delicate finishing touches,
She dressed in a paint-spattered shirt
and marveled at the uncanny likeness.

They sat and watched the paint dry
as he rubbed the knots from her shoulders
and kissed strained tendons and ligament
beneath innocuous flesh,
as she tapped rhythms into his hands.

He is no longer hers to consume.
He belongs now to the kingdom of earthworms
and a darkness that swallows all traces of light.
He took with him the chunk of her
that knew how to love as a human
and left her with shirts devoid of his form
and gradually losing his scent,
fragmented memories that slip
through fingers like sand,
and a room full of paintings
that she cannot bring herself
to uncover.