Right to Write

The orangutan leads bleating sheep

to a cliff lip that stretches

over ignorant oblivion.

He scratches to pretend

he knows what flea bites

fee like, but we know he sleeps

on a cloud of Cleveland’s and Madison’s,

though he doesn’t know who they were, only

that he is better than them.


He shouts fake news with a sneer,

forcing all the sheep to hear

solid stupidity in their ears.

It rings like a jackhammer,

relief is not imminent,

and neither is salvation.

If he wants to know what persecution

feels like, he should just speak

in front of a mirror.


For he sees color as danger,

all colors represent something

he cannot understand.

He is a blank slate of petrified,

screaming to anyone who will hear

of the great old days

while whispering

of the k




He screams fake news,

but the news answers him

with scandals

and body counts.

His numbers do not add up

when held up against the saving light

of an informed reality.


The orangutan would remove

our right to write,

our right to live,

our right to fabricated happiness.

The sheep will bleat,

and the crows will cackle.



Her hair billows out in the wind,

fanned by the breath of the lost

and the hope of the starving.


It curls like a kiss,

lavishing light and heat

with each one of their heart



She hums approval quietly

from under the black skies

she fights off with her beauty.


Stars twinkle overhead

and she hopes to burn

even a fraction as brightly,



The orange light she casts

is spellbinding,

enchanting men and women alike,

her beauty stuns all.



She provides comfort and illumination,

only asking for effort and consideration

from those she deems fit to spark

life into.


Angered by drops of water,

she crackles and hisses

a warning, loops of fire strands

diminishing, until she only lives

in the embers.

Celestial Cages

Countless stars were born

and died to create the cages

we live our whole lives in.

Sometimes the bars stretch

or shrink,

or blacken with bruises,

after being pushed to the brink.


The classic male, with his sturdy

prison cell consisting of

arms that bulge but cannot connect

with anything of substance.

The classic male, with his eyes

darkened from lust for violence,

or lust for the sake of lust,

staring at the world as if it were made for him

to own.

The classic male, with his teeth

gritted and a constant

glare of disapproval for

those who only seek approval.


The ostracized male,

sick of keeping up the façade

of emotional invincibility and

bullheaded courage.


The classic female,

demure and waifish,

fluttering through a room like

a trick of the light.

The classic female,

a bright and wide eyed


Her tongue lying still forever.

The classic female, small

in strength

but able to lift cars to protect her baby

with the arms that built a home.


The ostracized female,

torn between what she wants to be

and what is acceptable,

fists clenched and ready.