a sailing ship to a harbor.
But you harbored rancor
toward me. So, I rode out
a stormy sea.

I turned to you
a broken limb to a cast.
But you cast me to the side. So, I didn't
heal. I just backslide.

I turned to you
a stray homeless waif.
But you lead me astray.
I'm not safe.

I turned to you
an orange moth, circling the flame.
Both of us inflamed
with passion, crashing head on
burning in a song.

with the slightest breeze
his flame blows out into the
wind. Circling and billowing in
my honey hair I cough and choke

breathing in his air. He burns
both ends every day, growing smaller
as he melts away. He doesn't break
as glass. He weeps hot wax

running down his wick, till he
looks a homeless bearded man
that's sick. Bent over he passes
gas in his holder. And smolders as

a cigarette. The **** years
of work and sweat. No light, no flame
no ivory tower, just a stump of man
with dreams that soured.

I'll still bite them hard.
They can put up fences.
And I'll still cross their yard.
They can knock me

down.
But I'll stand up.
They can refuse to serve me.
I'll still fill my cup.

They can throw stones.
I'll still swim.
They can shut the lights off.
So, I'll read in the dim.

They can lock doors.
I can open with a bobby pin.
They can cheat at every turn.
But just the same, I'll still win.

They can build mountains.
And I can climb.
They can rip out my pages.
But I'll still rhyme.

mirror, growing smaller
than a beetle and so
clearer. When he was larger
than life he was fuzzy as

a high-winded kite. I,
tethered to his string,
held onto the whole tangled,
twisted thing. Pulling

it with me as it cut
into my hand. Bleeding
a bright strawberry jam,
attracting hornets, and

dancing in
the buzz. Does it
make me slow down?
Does it not turn me around?

like an unhatched egg
pushed out of the nest
to make room for the rest
of the birds
the ones that can't fly
die

like the little runt
that can't catch up
with the rest of the bunch
so he is lost
chasing his tail
in the snow and the frost

like a lover
thrown out the door
for the body of another
with more ******* to explore

like the chubby girl in school
sitting quietly and following the rules
wearing glasses and braces
with greasy hair and acne
tripping over her shoelaces

at my home. Flung out of his rancid
tongue. One by one they stuck together
just like tar to feather. So, I build a wall  
with his pejoratives that grew like

fast-acting viruses. Up to my neck,
he still flung them. Couldn’t let him
deck me. Like a woodpecker pecking me,
till I'm covered in holes. But now

my house is behind a wall of stone,
tall as me. Blocks all out, doesn't let me
see. Is it he still standing
behind the stones? Or at the locker

of Davy Jones? All is quiet now 'cept the hoot
of the old screech owl, the honking overhead
from flying fowl. And the ripple from the lake
is just the swimming of a drake.

that sharpened them.  Every
time they rubbed against my grit
their silver blade cut just a bit. The cool
in me turned them to steel. I built

a tower I cannot feel. They shred
the lines so thin into turpentine
and gin. I laid colorful as chalk
as they carved upon an empty

block. How many times can I
sharpen them till they inched their
way up my hem. On a  blooming spree
they stung me, like the honey bee. Now

my eyes are sandpaper, and my stare
a skyscraper. No longer cool, but
burning brush from scraping metal,
and steaming like a hot tea kettle.