I listened to my inner voice....
When I was filled with fear, when I learned at a young age that real monsters do exist and they are not like the ones in any story book I ever read. The monsters stole away any normal childhood that I could of or should of had.  Pain muted my words from flowing and poisoned my thoughts into growing... this is why I trusted no one.  
At the time I had no other choice... when I was
really the only friend I could totally depend on and count on
I listened to my inner voice...


I listened to my heart...
When all I could hear was a pounding in my ears, when all around me was like a crazy chaotic whirlwind screeching like a barred owl that would then break apart into tiny pieces and sink into a cold abyss forgotten by the sea.  I couldn’t forget the grief as it was real and still inside me. There was a brokenness about me my
heart was fragile and it balanced on the tip of my own desperation
but still I listened to my heart...
          
I listened to the words...
Slowly but surely I was able to come out from that darkened sea and was finally able to try and heal me. Words became my saving grace. I learned to not have muted lips and could give myself a fighting chance. I was able to tear down some of those protective walls to try again to live only in this moment without the armor and the hesitation. Writing became my new love... together we became an inseparable piece of one existence...
I felt so much better after I listened to the words ....

I tell her that tomorrow
Slides slowly to meet my
Familiar night.

That the changes are few
And subtle. I am OK, I say,
Face still cold from last night's

Pavement.
Truth is I'm terrified.
Heartbroken and soaked in

Myself, clinging to the past with
One hand, fighting its demons
With the other. Terrified.

Embracing my inner
Earthling. Loathing it.
Terrified. Loving it.

I used to think I was only human.
Now I
Know.

My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.

Writing is like falling in love; scary, stunning, difficult, amazing, big sweeping gestures, and falling from a plane... but it's worth it.

I thought of her often
She was a siren in the distance
Faint, annoying, pulling me aside, distracting me.
I thought of the way she loved me
A breathless love, a selfish love, more like a ritual.
I thought of her coldness,
The way she shut the world out.
She would look me in the eyes
But I saw nothing. I felt nothing.
I've never felt less from another's soul.

I think of her often,
But I don't like to.