On Peachland Road

Twenty, or so, years ago
my grandmother’s scream
fell silent.
Her echo remains,
until this day
lost in the hills of our home.
One decade has
passed, since last we heard it,
seized by the throes of my pain.
I slipped and I fell
one hundred feet
above the scene of her murder.
A neighbor of sorts
heard us both years apart,
caught in time from the past.
It wasn’t her fault,
wasn’t her choice,
to become victim of circumstance.
She chose the wrong man,
believing in him,
falling prey to his predator.



Wayward winds breathe
into the feeling of ocean
finding no solace
when diving deeply.
Jutting landscapes
leave waves to break
keeping worlds apart
creating imperfect waves.
Tides of ill-will
shift perspectives
toward standards
of unrequited love.


When all you can hope to do is breathe but your lungs are coated in dusty exhaustion that sleep cannot cease, it seems self-sabotage is the only relief on the way to salvation. The subconscious knows what we cannot begin to admit. If admittance were deemed an admirable feat perhaps becoming a being with meaning would be worth it. What is worth in the grand scheme of things? A preconceived notion society intervenes in on to determine the depth of a person. Our pain is only allowed to go skin deep, anything deeper gets swept under a political rug until dust bunny demons come out to haunt us. Mental illness is not being fixed until we are each given the right to embrace it.