In the stained mirror that distorts your image, a tired soul looks upon a longing to be set free. Shackles bound to lips that prevent the “I love you” are rusted from comparisons and fear. The reflection desires those three burning words to be spoken into existence, but there is no world that creates self-love. No reality, but your tired soul laughs and throws back its head; I have built the ground upon which I stand and hate won’t cut the roots that have grappled for a place in the earth. Your youth does not stop a thousand years of loving and you will again look at that distorted image and replace your canvas with color. But some days the world is gray and you run with no end line in sight and the tiredness just drags and drags and drags a raggedness from your eyes, pulling down on your skin, and making it hard to believe you ever knew what the word “love” looks like. But there are other days where you throw open your door and shout to the world that you are going to grow a garden of color and not even the strongest weeds of despair can choke your flowers. For you built the ground upon which you stand, and you know well the dirt on which your knees have fallen to when tears flew from your eyes like the sparks of a burning desire to see your worth. Each time you got back up, so you know now that you will build your garden in that same dirt and each new petal will be a reflection of your beautiful soul. And one day the garden you are working so hard to grow will be complete. And you will reap the benefits of the self-love you have sowed.


Dead AirĀ 

the only escape from imagination came from the healing of the body during sleep. the wake from lucid dreams of happiness that rendered ignorance for just a minute 

enough for a tsunami of memories to hit harder than the foot running away, slapping pavement 

it’s impossible to run through dead air 

silence takes a slow and sweet stride, molasses that’s hard to swallow 

and choking on realization, the day dresses any thought in sadness and regret 

it’s hard to breathe and the dead air makes ignorance look pretty 

but pretty doesn’t cut it in a mind that wants perfection 

how to heal becomes a quest that is tiring to pursue 

and dead air is always there, waiting to scratch cracks in the half full glass 

every morning the forgetful mind wakes, ready for a new day 

beaten back by truth, the easiest pill to overdose 

and after bruised face lifts, dead air deals the final blow 


Have you ever really looked into someone’s soul? How can we see someone once so colorful and vibrant become gray with time? I want to spend the rest of my life with someone who will constantly try to find kaleidoscopes in my thoughts. I see such pretty colors and I see the potential for double rainbows in souls that feel broken when I touch them. How do you find a love that lasts a lifetime? Is it truly possible to find the entire universe wrapped up in someone’s smile? Time tells most. Maybe fear and regret turn us gray. But gray paint washed over the walls of your skin can be peeled back, too.


There was finality in the goodbye that sailed through the air as Annalise watched her problems rapidly remove themselves from sight. The smaller houses became, the more certain the young girl knew that never again would she return to the chasms enveloping her mind. Not another look, whispered the wit; her fears slowly started to declaw from veins that bound her to ground. No, take flight, dear heart! Wailed the victim, and she could feel at Last the cold shock of freedom. Not daring to take a breath for fear she would wake, Annalise met the sun anyway. A single tear wondered what life would be if she was brave. A knock on the door, and another flightless day began for the clipped soul.


They Come and Go

“They come and go.” But those four shattering words did not go. Her chest on fire like a thousand daggers, but there was no knife. “They go” cried her heart, her very soul wailed in despair. The tears bit her cheek, whispering goodbye as they ran away from the reality that was her loneliness. The bed of nails she slept on sang empty promises of forever and together, and for that reason, the night was her enemy. And it was the sun’s rays rattling on a rickety track towards her face and the chugging of the birds that reminded her again: people take the first train out of this place. But what is that place? It is her.


One Shot

This is kind of my first crack at maybe baby slam poetry, I wouldn’t chalk it up to a full-fledged attempt. Anyways it has curse words so you were warned

Before you my thoughts weren’t diseased. I didn’t have a one track mind wondering if I’d ever be fine. Hell, I know I’ll be fine but you sure fucked me over and I’ll never forget looking out the window as you knocked on my door and sang promises of a better tomorrow and “your shot”
What the hell was your target? My happiness? My trust?
Well congrats because you managed to puncture through some rusted steel doors I had never opened
Congrats because you slowly convinced me I was allowed to be loved and then you decided it wasn’t worth it
Congrats because you took me in your stride and I was so much younger yesterday
But today, I am old and gray. And I’m tired
So tired of being proven right again and again
Why even bother with love? No one is generous enough to rise above
Selfishness and convenience and the quick fast and easy
I don’t think I can cry but you broke the backbone of an innocence I once had
Now I’m paralyzed from the waist down I can’t move forward
You made me look like a fool but I can’t say that
My brain works in slow motion and I’m scared to crawl along
Why the fuck did you prove me so right?
Where did it all go wrong?