that I find peace,
   a sort of push-it-away
   and give-myself-space
Peace.

I am tired
of trying to compete
in a one mans race

My mother never taught me
how to he happy alone
she taught me that disossociation
  was peace.

this peace would eat me
I am a composting wasteland
the seagulls peck at my brain--
--I never knew such pain
  than doing things
   the wrong way
  I still pay
    everyday.

"i'm not a poet,
i'm just a woman"

feminism was never
etched into our minds,
like patriarchy was;

we must find our own voices,
for man cannot do it for you.

Welcome it, everyone, with open hearts,
from feathery wings of angels;
Its clarity washes away each tear,
and blankets us from all angles.

The evergreens swathed in oyster white,
exquisitely aligned with holly berries;
Which light up the yard in rosy glow,
and comfort us from our worries.

No longer alone the cardinals fly,
and meet their mates high above;
Cheerfully sitting upon the branches,
nestling together with wintry love.

Gracefully floating through the air,
like delicate lace from times long ago;
While we watch this glorious solstice scene,
enchanted by the sight of first snow !

A backwards glance into infinity,
where remnants of memory fill the pages;
Of nightly whistling from trains at the station,
worn and tired yet oddly engaging.

Time seems to move on so slowly,
rearranged but distinct and intense;
We turn over in our bedtime ritual,
as each witching hour eerily descends.

Long ago we could hear in a whisper,
that fearless wraiths send us nightly stories;
And dawn brings us sleepless sunshine,
casting its beams searching for eternity.

Somewhere in the night we closed our eyes,
while spirits provoked by myths and legends;
Were sainted souls projecting cosmic signs,
which swirled 'round about toward the heavens.

Ethereal notions then crossed into darkness,
where nothing can be easily explained;
But in the night our whispers still linger,
along with the screeching of infinity's trains.

She carried the sky
in her mind
the ocean in her eyes
and the golden in her hands

I spend too many nights thinking
Wondering, writing, dreaming
Of someone who doesn't even think of me

i still
do not know
the poem i've been trying to write
and maybe
that's because
i haven't been
writing one at all
or maybe it's because
the poem i've been trying to write
is not ready for paper
and maybe
i'm the paper
that's not ready for it