Pain creates the darkness of the night washed away by the morning dew; love formed with the tick of a clock by the next breath was never true.
Morning Dew
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Poems
Daisy
To the white and yellow wildflower sitting next to me in the grass, you look lonely. You are the only one of your kind in all the field, and I understand how much that aches.
WWI Museum
I was twenty-four, my friend, and getting married; we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into when we passed over the field of poppies that said, “We are the numbers to end all numbers. You can try, but you cannot count us away.”
Exodus
Here I stand amid the ruins, here I seek for answers through thoughts riddled in confusion, the chaos clinking together like iron fetters. My very thoughts are ringing, forged in silence, chain by chain. Release me, for I am bound.
Life Is Like a Blackout Poem
We live in the blank space between stanzas; we stand in the gaps between words, watching the poems float by and letting their inky melodies drip over our consciousnesses, idle to the idea that some words need to be blacked out, and that others need to remain so that we are truly heard.
Cutting Down the Zinnias
The time has come to fell the flowers; it’s autumn now, the summer’s bounty waning. Outside I go, in the late morning hours, to do the deed, a buoyant manner feigning. Butterfly and bee fulfill their merry task of going back and forth between each bloom. Do they see me? If so, they do not ask whether I come to bring the garden’s doom.
The Door
With the remnants of my meager strength I slowly stand, turning the door handle, one thought guiding my shaking hand: The least I can do is know it all.
Burn Me
Smoke rises around me, steals my breath, and I can’t see. The life I’ve built is caving in; with bleeding lungs I let You in.
Never Enough
Never enough. Never enough. I am glory and disgrace. I’m tripping up at the end of the race. I’m a misspelled card, a hung-up phone. I’m always knowing and never known.
Dear Extrovert
Poetry is written for the quiet ones, the soulful ones, the ones who let thoughts tangle in their throats before they ever get tangled in their hair. Poetry is written for the soft ones, the shy ones, the ones who dance in midnight shadows and sip on moonlight tea.
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