Beginning with ash.
Leading to blood and tears.
Ending with love declared
out of the grave
into a new light's dawn.

Lent gives pause.
Jesus gifts life.

my arms are static
my legs are rocky air
my torso dips into
the skyward of mattress

I brought yesterday in my hands to set out in the sun
it didn’t take long to burn right up
my eyes trail the flecking ash in the air

there’s nothing i wish to hide

yet i sit like one car
parking lot tar matches the sky
at 3 am

is the static channel on the tv
still there when you turn off the screen

i think i see it when i close my eyes

You can only weigh the smoke
after the ashes.

You can only measure the man
after the tears.

A slowly suffocating fire
Turning fuel to charcoal
No bright flames of light and warmth
Until stoked by disruption
it sputters to life
A final intense burn
that falls into ashes

Meeting you felt like a spark
Kindling catching fire.
The catalyst that started it all.

Sparking ember; light flashes
Delight and glee at the power of it all.
Life starting.

As we picked up speed,
We lost control
We lost ourselves
We lost the magic.

The twinkle of possibility
Turned into fear
Of what we could become.

The fire was not contained.
It kept spreading
We did not how to slow it down
How to stop it
How to control it.

Molten lava dripped down
Leaving behind a barren mountain.
Burnt trees and homes
Destruction.

You loved me so fiercely that I burned,
Now you’ll only be left with ashes.

I hope you learned the risks of playing with fire.

Charcoal hands
To hold my ignited love,
The only reciprocity
Is to be maimed & scarred
With flames beyond the fire's control.
Gasoline loves a match-
Bright & hot, destructive, fast.
Burns out to within, and then
It's all exhausted;
Embers smolder to ash.

Maiden in the ashes
Robed in silk
Robbed of milk
No mark on your tender skin
No sign of turmoil within
The coal does not yet scorch your soul
...
You walk your delicate path
Bearing the sightly, brightly beaten cut bloom of spring
Luscious petals not yet knowing
They will drop from the stem
No seeds to plant, and not her fault
the only water here tainted with salt
And the ground here is hard, turned up in its roots
And the soft garden bed tamped down by boots
Do you know the path you tread does not want you?
Do you not yet feel the cut of the stone or burning of the coal to your sole?
Or does this black earth need your bloodstained steps as much as you need to bleed them
Is it possible for one woman's blood to nourish this dead soil back to life?
And one woman's love to seed them

I was raised in my father’s ill-timed
           old ways: as a man saying how he feels,
           was like ash in his ashtray. And I had
           smoked up a few reasons of not finding
           certainty; but instead finding answers in
           all addictions as a troubled youth.

I remember looking for a quick fix,
          like a constant broken clock—
         without a lot of time.
         As it felt better not to admit to why I
         was crying secretly at night, and instead
         going around faking all of my smiles.


As I never once felt like I could fit an
        ounce of myself in my family, and
        sometimes the thought of being a
        mistake would be a thought I’d accept
        so gladly.
“I’ve been a fool, I’ve been a ******,
           I’ve been an idiot, I’ve been a coward,
           and I’ve been less than a good friend,
           Feeling less of myself most times, in
           saying I don’t amount to anything”—
           were all of the things plaguing my head.

I’ve been so sick of love,
          pretending to have known it as much
          And to my luck, I’ve been unlucky enough
          to know the way I lived felt like a vortex,
         cos it always ******.

Sprung out on how I forced my appearance,
        sitting on bottled emotions, ignoring
        how I’m really feeling— all thought
        to show a man in their great zealous.
        Such a lie it was; and a door to the
        knowledge of depression, that I tried to
        hide so well, with years of experience.

Cause I was taught,
          “real men don’t show their feelings”
           Still what are these feelings, I’m feeling?

Feeling sad, depressed, a mess,
          who can’t confess that sometimes
          he's a mess and not always at his best.
          Still, self-perfection isn’t what the
          whole world expects. And unless this
          boy chooses not to digress from tackling
          the feelings that have him compressed; that
          boy will only be a boy who still sits in their
          mother’s nest.

Cos no bird will truly soar where it rests—
          so would I; never be a man in this crazy
          world, by just covering up all of my sores
          in my heart with a bulletproof vest. I
          already swallowed up those bullets; choking
          up on all of the words of, not saying
          what’s beating at my chest.

Today, today marks the day,
          I threw out that **** ashtray.
         Cos the ash in that tray, made me feel
         like, the *** of the day. And I refuse to
        do the donkey-work, of pretending that
         I’m always okay.

        No, I'm not okay, because I’ve spent
        my life being burnt by the scorching
        ash, in that old ashtray.

                          It’s time for healing.