Embers

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

beats.

 

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,

someday.

 

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.

Self?

What am I?
Just a silly sad girl.
No matter how I try,
life slaps me and I swirl.

Just a silly sad girl
full of bruises and scrapes,
life slaps me and I swirl
into the open arms of an ape.

Full of bruises and scrapes,
I waltz like a twister
into the open arms of an ape.
“You’re a piece of shit, sir.”

I waltz like a twister,
holding you in no regard.
“You’re a piece of shit, sir.”
I am my own guard.

Holding you in no regard,
no matter how I try…
I am my own guard.
What am I?

Ars Poetica

Somedays I can’t speak.
The words shrivel up in my throat
and my lips shut tight.
But they are there.
Racing through my synapses,
playing tag behind my eyes.

I see letters, jumbled and
heart wrenchingly lonely.
They need to be solid,
not just volleyed breaths.
But am I solid?
Am I worth more than a glance?

Thoughts are beautiful,
but I’m not.
Words can sing,
I sound like a drowning cat.
Letters fly and tumble like acrobats.
I’d rather not.

But there’s no denying
that sense of peace that
your fingers register,
and it travels to your brain,
as your eyes fasten their sights
on the tip of lead touching paper.

The scritch-scratch of loops
and cursives on something pristine.
The way the wind rustles and
crinkles a leaflet.
I won’t stop indulging
in my favorite vice.

Enchanted

Fairies buzz around your head,

lifting locks of silver and threading them to gold.

Fairies dance about your crown,

admiring themselves in your pair of cobalts.

The nymphs are singing

from under the floor;

a song of restless seduction.

The water is steep and you

have many miles to go,

before you sleep;

before you sleep.

 

You’ve walked in the woods

during a snowy evening.

Lights pass through trees;

a makeshift kaleidoscope of perspective.

There are those who have never seen light

but we don’t talk about them anymore

they live under floorboards and cellar doors

just the sight of those

yellow eyes gleaming in the absence of light

can send shivers down your spine.

 

There is no your kind,

or his kind

or Her Kind.

 

“Illegals” is not a noun.

 

There is our kind

and we have always been

right

here.

Bruises

different colors

splash across the canvas

of his body.

 

Blue is surrounded by a greyish

tinge, circled by yellow

that spreads out until all

is the night sky.

 

Stars are cigarette burns.

The only gift he has from his mother.

 

They had seen him with bags

of garbage in his hand.

They must have mistaken

them for signs demanding freedom.

 

 

One,  pipe that weighs a ton.

Two, front teeth crunch under a shoe.

Three, they don’t see him bleed.

Four, their voices roar.

 

He curls into himself

maybe then they won’t see

how his lip bleeds from his teeth

sinking through the appendage,

just so he stays still,

and doesn’t matter.

Bundy

Some say my face was carved by god.

“Angelic, cherubic, handsome, captivating”

meant to do wonders of good,

just like his first creations should.

But, I am the morning star

and you are all forsaken.

 

Forsaken to this wretched wasteland

of over abundance and under appreciation.

You should feel your spine tingle

your neck crink, ill

thoughts of death and decay

when you hear my name.

Foolish women want to play MY game?

 

They will never know the numbers

of all the unmarked graves I’ve

desecrated again.

And again.

The angel has seen your hideous

and it is his right to exterminate

this blight of ugliness that diseased the whole world.

 

Humanity should kneel

and suck my greatness.

Choke on it

and the dirt that you belong in.

This isn’t YOUR world now,

its always been mine—

I just let you borrow it.

Sad Girl’s Love Song (Sylvia Plath Imitation)

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead,

I lift swollen lids and nothing is right, again.

(I wish I made you up inside my head.)

 

The stars are marching in formation, blue and red,

And lovely blackness waltzes in,

I shut my eyes, and all the world drops dead.

 

I love how you bewitched me into bed,

And sung me awe-struck, kissed me back to sane.

(I wish I made you up inside my head.)

 

Seraphs fall from the sky, heaven’s light wanes.

Exodus of hateful foolish men.

I shut my eyes, and all the world drops, dead.

 

I know you’ll return, like you said.

I grow cold and whisper your name.

(I wish I made you up, inside my head.)

 

 

I couldn’t have loved any in your stead.

When spring comes, we’ll begin again.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead,

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Oranges

My yellow, bruised rinds

are peeled and opened.

Displayed like a flower,

if one cares to look.

Past the bruises and crescent moons

of those who touched but didn’t care

to split me open, work me out.

Reveal the sweetness that was covered by tough skin

and a tangy stare.

 

Sweet fruit revealed to patience.

A taste that will never flee your mouth.

A scent that can drive you mad,

but only if you let it.

You mistook my bruises for rot.

They’re not.

They were made by people like you.

 

People who have learned to judge by feel.

Picking us up and holding us in the light.

Examining every flaw, picking you apart

just to see you shrivel

and shrink.

 

Don’t.

 

You are more than your exterior.

Beneath your bumpy skin, your cold shell,

lies the most addictive drug they haven’t learned

to taste yet.

It Starts like That

He stands by the counter,

coffee cascading into the mug

he holds with a white knuckled grip.

It starts small like that.

 

A drop rebels from the waterfall,

splashes up and over the lip of its predestined

pool, lands on the skin of his finger.

It starts quiet like that.

 

A hiss, the world has betrayed him,

symbolized by that insignificant little drop—

that insignificant little daughter.

It starts, insignificant, like that.

 

Turning, furious, pupils dilate

(fight! fight! never flight!)

the mug crashes against the wall.

It starts with a crash, like that.

 

He thunders like a stormcloud,

shrouding the room in bright white

rage. Stares at the brown splatter

he’s made.

The roaring dulls, then escalates to

a lion defending his territory.

Claws were never sheathed.

Hatred never veiled.

Fists tighten and smash into immovable objects.

He is an unstoppable force.

 

When will you learn?

It doesn’t start like that.

It just never

stopped.

Medicated

My mind was full of things and sounds untold,
for months I hid myself away from light.
“She’s young, not bright, a foolish bird, but bold.”
My hands will block my hopeful eyes from sight.

I long to hear the golden bells in song.
The night has lasted long and hopeless dark
has conquered sight, made speech a hiss, so wrong.
The tune has come to still, a dead mute lark.

To touch, to grieve, this pain it lasts too long.
Like anguished screams this dark surrounds us all.
“Just stop, sit down, relax, rip that glass bong.”
My eyes are red but now I don’t feel small.

Man, all I need is more cool ranch cheese chips.
But first, lemme just take a few more rips.