Tag Archives: writing



Whole feels like a memory,
Dipped in molasses.
Bitter-sweet and ungraspable with the tenuous hold of hindsight.

Something missed,
Wondered at,
Reflected upon,


Are we damaged because we are broken?
Did we break because we were already damaged?
Was it some deep fault shaped as we were molded?

Could it have gone any other way?

Can it still?

Would we want it to?

How many more cracks can be filled with golden mortar?
Before that which we become,
Is no longer akin in nature to that what we were.

A bittersweet memory, Dipped in molasses,
Ungraspable by the tenuous hold of hindsight.


Sorry Don’t…


Sorry don’t…sooth now-a-days, don’t placate.
Ordinary word, for an ordinary lie.
Regret has simply been disassociated with it’s utterance.
Remorse, something that should go with, but lost in the acceptance of it.
You breath easy now, that it’s taken and accepted, now you’re free to do it again.

Silly Interpretation

Watching an ant cart away a mosquito.


I watched them fight,

I rooted for the ant.


I don’t know why.

I’m human,

they’re both villains to my state of being.


But I rooted for the ant,

and I will not mourn the mosquito with her zebra stripes.


I watched Sister Ant,

wondering briefly if it matter to her that she had occupied my thoughts.


The enemy of my enemy,

an Ant.


What a silly interpretation,

of the table next to my laptop.

Death by Expectations: Selfish

images (14)

I wonder,

If I had not gotten my self too caught up in her,

If I had deluded myself right out of thinking,

I was worthy of my own experience.

Was I star struck,

By this iridescent creature,

My newly found sister friend?

I wonder,

If I had gotten myself too lost in him,

If I had become so entranced in his eyes and his scent,

That I had hallucinated the better sides of him,

And was left with something simply…less.

I wonder,

If for a time my sight was trained too firmly inward,

That I forgot to look out my window,

and take stock of my surrounding,

For I had written the map that I follow,

not so?

I wonder,

If I had become too distracted by this thing I was supposed to be,

except that I didn’t want to,

but had to in order to meet all the expectations laid out for me to die by.

I wonder all these things into the silence,

as I lay awake at night to the sound of his breathing,

wondering if when he moans and shifts,

if when he closes his eyes in coital bliss,

If I am painted behind those lids.

I wonder it,

wetly into my pillow in the witching hour.

Covering my shame in the day light,

masking it behind my ambition,

which may well  be as without talent as it is without resource.

Everyone knows my lies,

I am not her.

Even as I want desperately to be.

I am only the child they raised by accident.

And now, recognizing this,

that my very existence a chance occurrence,

not planned or in any way ordered by me,

That I should relinquish at least a ton of my weight.

Oh God, but my shoulders feel relieved at that.

My feet all the lighter for no longer needing his appraising eye,

to come away satisfied with me.

I remember that I owe him nothing but what I promised.

That which he has though he chooses to ignore it,

For the company of more flamboyant characters.

And her who I wish I was is just another kindred soul,

Sharing more comfortably each day the label of “Broken Thing”.

Repaired in each crack with gold,

and inlaid web of sparkling experience,

and I love her.


I am, in this moment in time and space,

an entity free of all that bullshit,

and I have a right to this,

feeling, clutched desperately to my bosom,

even against the onslaught of the absence of all my yearning.

This inward attitude of righteous aloneness,

determined and directed,

My path dammit.

my journey,

my repentance, and reformation of self.

Time to build me,

time for me to be selfish.

Cubra Libre, no ice.


I’ll have a Cubra Libre,

No Coke, no ice, lime on the side,


The man behind the bar gives me a skeptical eye,

But he complies.

I settle a long slow sip on my tongue,

let it slide down my gullet,

A comforting warmth in the pit of my belly.

They tell me this is courage.

See cause tonight,

I’m gonna write.

A rhyme, a tale, poem, sonnet, novel,

That will wet the sides of any reader’s pillow,

No matter how jaded.

It will encompass greatness,

I’ll touch a quintessence somewhere no matter how guarded.

A web will be spun,

from my spinneret pen,

Come into my parlor,

Tattoo my verses on your psyche,

Come morning,

All will be in awe of me.

Sip two, sip three,

This is bravery,

That this shall be well received,

Embraced even, by the many,

Sip four through six,

Sip ten, bar man another fix,

and then it’s morning.

And all I’ve written is another piece that sounds just like me.




I can’t sleep.

The clock on my wall keeps taunting,

Each tick a haunting,

A whisper,

Another voice to the cacophony inside my head.

3:00 AM

I sat up in that bed,

fed up of it’s jest.

I dressed and left,

And wondered.

Letting the voices lead my feet,

Down this and that threatening street,

All of it lost to me, as my inward eyes mapped their movements.

I thought to hide in the bottom of some bottle,

Drown the council of characters with spirits.

“Yeah, that’s the spirit.” one soul yells.

Was that mine or one of them?

Who speak so fast, so loud, so bold, they outrun my pen.

So here I am walking,

These streets at 3 Am.

And an old woman pushes her rattling home past me,

And a new voice assails myself.

I head back to clock on the wall,

to the bed,

They’ll keep my company as I try to give the conclave voice,

do them write,

Put their voices in printed ink,

So there can be quite in which to sleep.

Image credit

For my Children


Here lies the body of the Woman I was,

I lay her to rest on the bones of the Girl I was,

On the dust of the child I was,

On the memory of the babe my mother bore,

So painfully.

That her pain should be repaid with suffering of a different kind,

Leaving freedom in her wake for the blessed burden of another life,

Willingly she did this, for someone,

Totally dependent on her,

Here lie my rose colored glasses for a babe knows nothing of pain,

A babe knows everything of need and helplessness,

In a way we are all in someway ever babes.

Are we not?

Here lies a child’s laughter,

Unapologetically loud and resigned of all things labeled,

Innocent is what I was then,

Too young to know the ugliness of life,

Of a cousin beating on a wife,

To see the patterns of rape in his daughter,

To feel outrage at such things.

I was young and innocent,

I will not apologize for it.

I was protected lucky me, as I was humble, and sheltered,

A right that should be reserved for all children,

A right that should be reserved for mine,

I bid you please not to take that away.

But as all great eras must, my innocence ended.

Not as abruptly as my peace,

Ripped away slowly as time and age and circumstance came to call,

That with my first crimson tide, should come an awareness of myself.

A truth both profound and terrifying.

I am Precious, Precious, PRECIOUS,

and no one least of all I, should take that for granted.

It is a weight most heavy on a young woman’s shoulders.

Easily misinterpreted or mis-allocated with all the voices screaming,

BE FREE like this,

BE YOU like us,

BE HAPPY but not too much so,

BE UNTOUCHABLE in the heart,

BE TOUCHED by anyone who draws near,

for all this fit into the new mold that crushed the last,

as I tried and failed to grasp the woman I was becoming,

and thus I became…

I became a woman of value despite myself.

Despite all the deeds done in rebellion of whom I can’t remember,

For reasons I cannot relate lest a damn burst,

And I vomit hell in verse into your lap.

I became a woman,

With responsibility hefted on my shoulder by my own choice,

I took on that constriction around my chest and in my soul,

the one that does not let me draw breath but to move ever forward for them.

I was lucky, to have someone with me then,

To grow as I did, and learn as I did, to fall with me and let me fall

and himself fall away at times,

Creating those fractures in my being that let wisdom seep through,

To build the memory examined in hindsight,

that laid the pillars of my values, my dedication,

Leaving room for the fluidity of change within myself.

Even though I didn’t know it then,

Did not value the furrows I left in the fertile soil of his spirit,

Now and then, maybe even before time had meaning, joined to mine.

So that he recognized me as home and I labelled him my safe harbor.

He will always come back, I will always go back, Bound like that,

is impossible to dismiss easily.

Tumultuous I died,

Taken by the cancer of self doubt, self righteousness,

self importance, self respect and then neglect,

trying to become a celebrated martyr,

but there is no honor in this, no honor,

And so she too was laid to rest over the refuse of her predecessors.

Her eulogy written not in tears but in deeds yet to come,

As the Lady who grew from the rich earth of her background,

Rises meteorically,

Metamorphosed now into someone worthy of the

unconditional love of bright shining eyes,

Sending their own unapologetic utterances of joy into the ether,

Before the ugly steals their laughter,

A safe haven for their purity,

A blueprint to their probity.

Here I lay to rest the woman I was,

for my children.


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