Poems
Cutting Down the Zinnias

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.

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The Door

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.

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Burn Me

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.

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Never Enough

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.

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Dear Extrovert

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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Monster

Monster

If you’ve ever met a demon, you’ve known leashes, locks, and ties, you’ve known every filthy fingerprint that’s lined you with its lies. If you’ve ever met a demon, you’ve let pretty pretense go, because surely it’s no monster if it’s here to help you grow.

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Overflow

Overflow

I was built deep and hungry, with a heart that wanted to be filled with so much beauty and emotion and love. I thought that was my gift, my blessing—being able to contain it all.

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Homesick

Homesick

Tornado winds raged when I was here last. Your fingers ran through my hair and calmed the strands the storm had tangled. I wondered how long before I felt that safety again.

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Thunderstorm

Thunderstorm

People call her strong, and when she speaks, thunder roars. From her heart flows a downpour that drowns and overwhelms many a landscape. But within the churning clouds hides a gentle flicker of light, each flash and each vein a memory of past hurts and triumphs that must be guarded.

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