a princess, tired,
built castles, loved by people
and loved a prince
—all birthed from her words

an outcast, fallen,
as her words turn
into robbers of joy and
into daggers against her

a queen, revives,
to ascend the throne once again
pen as sword; heart as shield
written words are her armies
under her rough hands

In an unsynchronous, unscripted, parallel of this world lie the unsuspecting pieces of my game. They are as diverse as they are unique, and equally as unwary. Their roles, even unknown to me, will be played out and unraveled along with the secrets of the universe they occupy. They are unwilling, innocent, and utterly perfect.

I used to make poetry
That would appeal to many.
I was wrong.
Because now I write
As long as I would feel right.

How soon do the words escape your mouth that you realize-
It's far too late to share words that were communicated in a nod three weeks ago,
Or in a passing by kiss last year.
Now they are a hollow shell of everything you wanted to say but somehow feared.
Instead, they were written on your face of faces and spelled out the truth inside of you.
Your words are just words if they are empty and hollow,
Like bones on a corpse-
Unidentifiable.
And when I finally listened to you speak,
I knew we’d never be.
You lack the necessary element that creates me-
Meaning.

I know a writer
She seems like quite the fighter
her arms and legs are covered in scars        
But her eyes are so full of stars

I know a writer
Whose future couldn't be brighter
that always seems so sad
Or maybe just a bit mad

I know a writer
Who couldn’t shoot higher
She always looks up on her strolls
For the sky holds all her goals

I know a writer
Sleepless over her typewriter
She often falls asleep in class
But, she has a smile that could cut glass

I know a writer
Who frequents the overnighter
Sleep to her is a foreign ideal
She knows not how it can heal


I know a writer
Who is quick to tire
An hour or two
It’s ever so true

I know a writer
Who's not an outsider
So full of compassion
She runs with a faction

I know a writer
And she's kinda a whiner
Loud and proud
Much like a storm cloud

I know a writer
She's nothing more than a cipher
With her secret codes
Hidden in all of her odes

I know a writer
Who couldn’t be nicer
Always smiling at strangers
She's a real game changer

I know a writer
Who fights like a tiger
She’s stronger than most
But she isn’t one to boast

I know a writer
Who bites like a viper
She can be malignant
But only if you’re distant

I know a writer
And this may seem minor
But her vivid imagination
leads to the beauty of creation

I know a writer
Who couldn’t be wiser
With a heart for spoken word
Though she’s often left unheard

and if i say i love you
i mean i love myself.

Misshapen hands, with scars in unusual places, glide and strike with short flurried bursts across the keyboard. The soft ticking of keys and the clock are the only sounds that permeate the silence. He leans back in his chair to observe and critique his work before moving on, only to return hunched over to correct minor mistakes. This pattern, this silence, has become normal to him. Foreign is the concept of others while he gives his thoughts their first breath of air. The world to him a simple hum tugging at the back of his mind, slowly bringing him down from his throne of creation.

Imagine for a moment
our lives are different
imagine for a second
our world is surrounded by peace
imagine for a minute
this is more than just a dream.

Like an old fashion writer.
Typing letters.
To things.
In hope they react.