I used to think chastity
was a five year old who
knew nothing about ***.
The kind of innocence
I longed for as an adult too much.
Now a ****** who knows everything.
I still hate that to this day.
Yet what’s wrong  with
a tiger striped dove?
Fight in the flight or visa versa.
A lot of people in our culture
view purity as something *****.
Yet a lot of people in our culture
view the ****** as way too cool.
Where is the balance?
There has got to be one.
Chastity to me is staying
true to the one you love.
There is so much more!

Kindness
was a house.

Knitted by
knowing you.

It was made
of sticky notes.

Encouragement
aching for actions.

Friendship
is the fuel.

Hearts only
in its windows.

Looks didn’t
really matter.

A firm foundation
invisible.

Gates of wisdom
walk to it.

Depression
laughed at it.

Gossip galloped
away from it.

The golden rule
knew better.

raindrops of stars
asked the sun what
it was laughing about.

The sun says
nah you’ll think it’s
way too ridiculous.

If I told you
the impossibility of it
would possess you.

You’d never
see me in the same
light again.

Oh just tell them
before you spit out the
ocean from laughing.

The stars surrounded
the sun so close.

The sun began
to say the giraffe walks
In the woods everyday.

If you look
close enough you’ll see
that she is wearing
cowboy boots.

If you look long
enough you’ll see
they’re slithering
up her ankles.

She knocks
down trees like
they’re domino’s.

Her heart is like
a jellyfish trying to escape as
she looks all around.

She does not
know about me but she’s
trying not to be found.

They lost their
crowns and
became just pins.

Butterflies moving
the hands of a
grandfather clock.

They’re just
hoping they can
change times mind.

If time
could hug them
they’d love it.

They ache
for attention.

The grandfather
clock opens
his stomach.

He spits out
all the wrong
words.

Letters without
sentences.

Butterflies just
long for simplicity.

Yet they’re
stuck in beauty.

In their wings
are fences
locked forever.

The Victorian
house fell down around
them long ago.

If only spring
had influenced all
the other seasons.

The Golden
Gate Bridge
is a harp.

It’s one
for a giant.

Yet the harp has
never been played.

If it would the
sound would shine.

Everyone would
hear it all
over the world.

The bridges ropes
turning to a line of
raindrops though.

Rush hour
would agree.

The fish long
to be free.

The butterflies
are blind.

Stars fly through
like sand.

Trees reaching
towards it.

Yet no one
hears the pulse
of a promise.

A woman walks
down the street as children
throw mud at her.

Her mouth a trench.

Her head shaved.

She’s hardly dressed.

No one dares look
in her eyes though.

There are dreams
there that children
are jealous of.

The houses are
round like thimbles.

Steam pours out
like coffee cups.  

The shutters stick
out like birds beaks.  

The wind shuffles
the houses about.

Some of the
houses tip over.

You’ll be guessing
in vain though.

There are no
souls underneath.

Only bodies in
dresses and tuxedos.

A mermaid with
a tail made of a lilac.

The largest
you’ve ever seen.

Her *******
made of two lilacs.

Her eyes have
fern sunglasses.

Her hair an
ocean of sun
as she floated
down the lake.

Her fingers
spinning the whirl
under the raindrops.

She sang softly
about how she
once saved ophelia.

All the people
screamed with horror
as they beheld her.

Yet it wasn’t her
that they feared.

It was the
flood rising up out of
the mist like a fist.

All the bees
trying to hold it back
did so in vain.

The giraffe walking
through the sand.

He’s trying not to sink.

He blows out  

bubblegum that
looks like jellyfish.

He caught
a dreadful sight.

A snake
strangling a starfish.

He wanted to
do something for it.

Instead he just
stood there like
a mast on a ship.

An ocean wave
swallowed the
starfish and snake
like a vitamin.

Later when the
giraffe was sleeping
the starfish crawled up
and down his back.

A butterfly
sneaking up on
a conch shell.

They’re just
looking for a
safe space.

They begin to
just curl on in.

They feel like
pencil shavings.

The conch
shell begins to
grow icicles.

It’s from just
being stuck.

Empathy and
sympathy
in a bind.

The conch
shell on
the edge.

Just poking up
out of a mountain.

A butterfly kissing
it’s ceiling.

Just trying
not to be peeling.

You should never
write at night.

The tunnel then
is often too tight.

You’ll experience
an awful fright.

You might have to
give up your sight.

It’s easier to be
positive in the light.

You taunt with
all your might.


No ones allowed to cut
up anyone out of spite

Your sighs fly
lower than a kite.

So no matter what time
you were right to write.

The octopus with
rosebud eyes.
Sparklers shooting
through its pores.
A head with an
opening like an iris.
You move each
tentacle against the
wave like it’s a harp.
You threaten to
turn into fish scales.
You stand
on your head.
So when I fly by.
You look like a sea star.
The waves try
not to open you
like an umbrella.
I sit trying
not to throw out
my philosophy
with the bath water.

She sold
her teeth.

She sold
her hair.

Now she’s
only a tunnel.

No one knows
what’s left.

She has only
one concern.

There’s
kindness there.

Buried six
feet deep.

She can’t
look anymore.

The streets
before her
seem to shuffle.

Are there
souls underneath
those roofs?

Can you guess
for just a buck?

All the
houses tip over.

There isn’t
a single soul underneath
but loads of bodies.

She was doing
intricate footwork on her figure
skates behind bars.

Her whole
audience had their
eyes closed.

She conducted their
hearts with her hands.

Her hair flew
like music notes as
she did an axel.

Her figure skates
were like violins.

Her blades were
like the bow.

A lullaby sleep
walked on her tongue.

Her layback spin
was like a tuba scratching
roses into the ice.

Her spiral sailed
through the rink
like a guitar.

She gave you
a feeling like her program
was never ending.

A rose in
a dandelion of water.

A fairy sleeping in
the handle of a tea cup.

Her straw hat casting
rain drop shadows.

She tosses and turns
like she’s in a hammock.

She frowns with her
aurora borealis hair.

Her dress of tv static
blows in the wind.

The tablecloth of armor
claps as you sit down.

Inspirational quotes written
in blue on the tea cup.

She has never read them.

You can’t read them either.

She was a little girl
with star prints all over her
long wavy hair.

The words
tattooed all over her skin
were nonsense.

Her storybook was
the size of her roof.

The only thing
holding everything together
was her imagination.

The older she
got everything faded
or became tiny.

Star prints turned
to ashes in her gray hair.

Her storybook
was as tiny as
a piece of rice.

Everyone could
read the words
tattooed on her skin.

So everything
became way too hidden.

Yet imagination
was still somewhere
deep inside.

She just has to
fight all the aura of
the horror harder.

The back of a
turtle is a
dream catcher.

The biggest I’ve
ever seen.

There are no
holes in it.

So the dreams
cannot get out.

Cobweb carving
on his back.

The turtle walks
in its sleep.

His head and
legs like cactus.

He spins
through the sand.

He feels like
a skipped rock.

The wind
will not mock.