I look for reasons to show upI find them in all the wrong placesI realize that to climb on the wagonthe only thing I need to changeIs everything –

Part of me wanted to say something meanPart of me wanted to tell him of Simone De BeauvoirPart of me wanted to wait till he noticed my outfitInstead, I mumbled “Yes.”You know the old saying.You ask a silly question, you get a silly answer.

I pulled a card today.Two swords; one in each handI didn’t know what to make of itA blessing – A femme fatalePart of me plays the foolHolding nothing backStargazing, as if I know youSnapping myself out of it –This time burn slowI write this in the dead of nightHunched over a screenHaving wished sweet dreams,I…

I ask myselfWhat I needThe very doughRisen by endInventory itemsLost or LentMy blood will be poisonFor those who strayed

I live my life accordingto clocks I have not setThey tick away unwatchedWinding down – so softIn rapture coming – soughtSpent on punches lostThe trickle of the sandMarching on the lotI ask for what I haveAnd never anything lessSo give me kisses fewI need then come the dew

The chatter in your headMight annoy youBut we find peaceamong the flowersWalking about a garden -Late fall, wondering how it isThat in the east the leavesAre just that much crunchierWe talk of weddings to comeAll the names we’d pickAnd houses we’d buildA life together, never splitMaking no wishesKnowing we are safeAll the same –

Soft warm linen, candlelightThe kind of kind, you find only onceA tapestry of new-found odditiesMemories from before the aughtiesGilded ears, frankincense, a murmurof a heart beating fast, I writeNon-fiction as she lay hereA coven made ever so queerFierce as she is“I am what I am”As above, so belowFrom the storm, a rainbow

I am ashSoft, gray, and grittyI grin as Father paints my foreheadWe are nothing more than palmsWarm on the sand, beneathThe feet of Him

A pain in my backIt aches for sureA reminder ofMy humanityA ticking clockFor my body’sService to meOne day to end

Those who don’t writeAre doomed to stay blockedThose who don’t paintWon’t pick up the brushThose who don’t danceWill fall without graceSurely there are thingsthat must stay stoppedBut why would musicnot play on -I can’t imagine a fadeWithout finding a joyThat does not end