Frozen in daylight
Molten in glaciers
Loving is living
Beyond wildest adaptations
Flabbergasted in the fray
Of messy, mixed emotions
Face deep in downfall
Of kins' precautions..

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

I can't see  women cry so,
they take advantage of me.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

egg whites

Remembering
Beautiful days;
So perfectly imperfect.
Pomegranate stains
On white fabric.
Digging for worms,
The smell of earth.
Rug burned knees,
Sliding fast on wet grass.
Sticky, melted ice cream;
Vanilla bean and sherbet drip.
Sunburned skin so angry,
Don't touch and irritate it.
Buried messages in bottles,
Thinking one day someone
Would find them.