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Thursday, March 9, 2017

Pull of the Abyss

I feel the tendrils creeping in

starting to erode, with tiny little pin holes,

my glowing paper lantern heart.

But this puckish trickery makes me doubt

the subtle dips, the gentle downward tugs.

I’ve walked this path before, ignoring all the signs,

until white walled halls had to pull me back out,

when I was so lost in my abyss

that bloody wrists and a mouth full of pills felt like hope.

Swore I’d never befriend grey, can’t-get-out-of-bed days again,

yet I can feel that draw seeping through,

so close the hairs on my arms sway and rise.

The Fighter

I have fought bare knuckled brawls

with bruises secreted away

from every pitying, bless your heart eyes

because I don’t need their pity

just like I don’t need yours

These scars are mine

These scars define me

I’m proud for every punch I gave back

for always rising when they knocked me down

for waking when they knocked me out.

I fought back, I always fight back

So, keep your damn pity and go to hell

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

She Sings


Her voice rises and falls,

a sultry swell that seeps

into every corner of the dark, smoky room.

She becomes the embodiment of desire,

the personification of longing.

Oh, luring siren help us forget

the ennui of life outside this song.

If only for a moment,

remind us how it feels to fall in love.

Monday, January 23, 2017

Ode to Life

When I am gone, and all that remains is dust,

I give you my sincerest gratitude

for rainy lullaby nights and the crisp rays of dawn;

For dandelions, birthday candles, and falling stars

to whom I entrusted all my deepest wishes;

For airplane tickets and full tanks of gas

pushing me forever forward.

You showed this heart what it means to be alive

with every infatuation, intertwining intimacy, and shattering end.

For every tumble that scraped up my knees

you taught me how to stand,

and to never hang my head in shame at the fall.

For every fissured, cracked heart,

you showed the strength in the mend.

And I overflow with appreciation for that spark,

whether it was a dim glow or a raging wildfire,

that kept my fingertips reaching for dreams.

So, Life, please accept my offering of thanks

for the breathtaking beauty of this world

and the generosity of a heart with which to view it.

Holding Patterns

The expectations of yesterday

were too heavy a burden to bear,

and this love buckled under the weight.

All that’s left is the crumbling cement,

found in secret looks of contained longing,

and a flickering electric touch.

Muscle memory keeps us swaying.


     Sisyphus, rising and falling

          like a metronome, the stomp, stomp,

                  stomping of my feet mirroring the thudding

                           of my well-worn heart, the one that foolishly

                                    believes each rise will be the last, that never

                                           again will I suffer the indignity of the plummet

                                                and when I pause long enough to yearn for a dream

                                                      all I can see is a weary body completely unmoving.

Dreaming of Wonderland

Under moonless, brittle skies I have slept,

longing for day, where dreams, manic and gray,

enthralled me. Landscapes of hard beauty swept

me to wonderlands, Alice called to play.

Where Cheshire cats and cold hearted queens,

jumbled me up and twisted me around;

where even the surest space in-between

the truth and the lie could never be found;

where the black and the grey looked just the same,

and white was a color no one would use;

kindness and honor were given no name;

and life and love were but a fickle ruse.

I think, perhaps, I will just stay awake.

Dreaming is too risky a chance to take.


To Langston Hughes

You speak of dreams,

the drive that is the source of all creation,

the fire that pushed you higher than the insurmountable.

Your words, like flint in my soul,

have sparked that obsessive pull

that keeps pen returning to paper,

fingers moving relentlessly on a keyboard.

I read your words like a roadmap,

guiding me through love and heartbreak,

through joy and rage, through the lows of the blues,

and the incandescent highs of jazz.

Such sweet music, even in pain, dripping from your pen,

incites an eyes-closed, hallelujah feeling

in the deepest depths of this poet’s heart.

Can you see, in whatever corner of heaven artists reside,

how those dreams live on?

That seed you planted almost a century ago

is now a mighty oak, and the branches, too numerous to count,

if you look close enough, have bits and pieces

of your words etched with love through the hard-outer shell

to reach the green, ever-growing heart.

The dreamer in me looks to you in gratitude.

Posted at ABC Wednesday