When guilt burst forth, at Menden's door
We could not speak, we did not know
The toll the rage of men might seek
Through witless priests and burning snow

That Sword was forged in Elwen's fyre
With magic signs embossed in vain
The power of steam in crooked lines
To cleave the brows in villainous twain

Thus Emnoch came to shield the world
A hero's hero of countless girth
The ***** of shame that numbered zero
A blade arrived to state his worth

This dismal feast of brutal love
Will never sate a horse's tune
Senescence and honor entwined in fate
He ever swells that liquid boon

Asunder sliced was Denzhen Yeep
Just as Vile Ben wast slain
The Witches Five broke on the Pile
A magic Pentagon of pain

But do not braise the glance of morn'
We cannot love what has not hair
Embrace the stench of Emnoch's glove
His tale is there for you to share

I want to continually reward myself
with new experiences,

wake up each morning to sounds
of birds chirping at dawn,

and rise to liberate my own inner warrior.

The mirror reveals the soul within
It is hazy water filled
In a desert mi raged heart

It is barren
Where whence it was full throttled cherry blossomed, apple cheeked rosy

The mirror reveals the soul within
Scorched embers
Still can see through the branches to a small piece
Not yet scorned
Tenderly aching but still filled with a sense of wonder
A leaf not torn
A branch unbroken, its leaves fall, hoping to dance in the suns warmth

The mirror reveals the soul within
Whose lines tell stories like trees that have grown
There bark is brittled beauty
Born from moments that were swept up like wisps of air

The mirror reveals the soul within
Still standing
Still solemn
Still here.

Four walls through a first person point of view.



That’s how I saw it, laying in the center of the empty room on the bamboo floor board my daddy laid.  



Staring at the ceiling, tracing the corners with raw and broken eyes.



I would be the last person to leave this place, and rightfully so. The last person to say goodbye. The last person to lock the door, and let the house go.



Four walls through a first person point of view. I spoke to the woman inside of my bones gently, as my voice cracked for the last time.



In this room, I became a warrior. In this room, I became a woman. In this room, I became a writer. In this room, I became a wanderer.



Four walls through a first person point of view.  I carried the weight of the world with me as I walked out that door.

Some days I wake up from dreams
unsure,
if I am going to grow up to be
a warrior
or worrier.