I grew up in a state of ignorance;
I can say that now, because
I know I am arrogant.
I have learned lately,
I am on a journey, so
I should worry less.


One of Four

Your body hums like no other,
Resounding in my core
An echo to your story
A mirror of who you are.
I suppose I had been waiting
For you to come around
When suddenly there was silence
As you decided to leave town.
Do not make assumptions,
As I have done before
Leaving this to second chances
Though now, there are no more.

Slow Heat

A small town sits cozily
Nestled in a deep valley
A mountain away from an ocean.
Cool breezes sing through
A melody made by leaves
Falling on once-clear paths.
Morning fog burns off,
The day moves on slowly,
Heat settles into the night.


I put too much pressure on myself to be a poet when that is not the descriptor I would ultimately choose for myself. I would hope to be successful enough in writing that I could attempt fiction or non-fiction with ease, but I get so caught up in the process I never post any sort of progress.

Practice, practice, practice.

I haven’t been practicing much of anything lately, except banging my head against any given object with any sort of misplaced frustration I can muster. So here’s to the effort, thank you to “Room to Write” by Bonni Goldberg, may she inspire me enough to post something new:

Today, as you write, incorporate into the piece some of what you would like to be doing right now if you were not writing. p.105

I am sitting uncomfortably, hunched over my computer in the dim light of a desk lamp, writing without my contacts in. I squint in the middle of the day when my sight is at it’s clearest, so this middle of the night business is nonsense. I am on my bed, but I’ve read article upon article about shutting off the lights and turning off electronics when attempting to sleep, making this bed-sitting completely unacceptable. I would be sleeping if these thoughts would stop plaguing me and some sort of guilt will ensue if I continue this short process, but I can’t stop it: there are too many problems in the world for us to not be stuck on one or another, regardless of them being real or made up.

I have been attempting to pay more attention to the reality that surrounds us, keeping up with the news and the politics of the world by reading articles. The daily update is daunting; there is something tragic happening on a second-to-second basis and trying to decipher it all overwhelms me, at times. How are we supposed to align our overall goals with the realization that there are so many people drowning in their individual situations? Can we reach out to help the world if we are not capable of helping ourselves? Or are we helping ourselves by reaching out to the world, and if that is the mind-set, could it be considered selfish?

Worry for the world while worrying for oneself. Worry not about my alliteration though, we all know that’s whack.


Pale lashes fall on full cheeks
Destined for slumber til morning.
While life meanders on
Thunder peals in the distance.
The sleeper does not hear it–
Warm beneath winter fleece.
Heat from a short day
Loses strength quickly
Against the pull of a storm.
Fat droplets explode on cobblestone
Filling microscopic holes,
Ejecting their small compounds
Expressing the smell of rain.
A dry spell may not last forever,
Mr. Barrie told me, but then,
He said forever could possibly last
For only three seconds.

On An Edge

​I sway against the universe
Ebbing as it begins to flow
Into my entire being
Seeming to be waiting
On the precipice
Of some momentous moment
Distinguished from one another
By a small segment of time
A solitary breath held in
On a fog-filled winter night

Paper Thin Skin

Hands, hardened by work,
softened by love,
learn the curves of a woman–
in spring.

Hearts, broken then fixed,
blending lines of passion
with the destruction of lust–
this summer.

Voices, gentled by age,
crack as they call
for lost loved ones–
each autumn.

Skin, aged to paper thin,
cracks in dry wind
during a warm spell–
last winter.