From the Girl with Far too Much to Say

I grew far too comfortable between trust and time
and far too lonely when I learned you were not mine
far too expectant when you said we could stay friends
and far too resistant when I knew it was the end

your friendship will be cherished
as it’s not a thing to waste
finding someone I can share with
is always a rare fate
all the stories are my favorite
these endless tales that can be told
and new stories we’ve created
are more valuable than gold

stories of babies and motorcycles
of scarves and backwards impressions
of misread words and misunderstandings
to parks and ducks and squirrels befriended

with each friend I share a story
and each friend has their own past
but to each of you I’m loyal
always ready to give laughs
I’ll be there for good and bad times
and all of the times in-between
please remember I am with you
even if we do not speak

and even though we disagree on almost everything
know I will always have your back if every you need me
don’t worry about puffy eyes or tears staining your cheeks
I already have the ice cream and I saved your favorite seat

though I will admit it’s different
sharing less than instead of more
it will take a while adjusting
to this room with open doors
but what you have to offer
is as rare as was before
I will share with you my secrets
If you can still trust me with yours

the comfort will return after time will turn to scars
loneliness will burn as we rewrite both our parts
expectations will be met once they’re reasonably placed
and resistance will give way once my fears can just be faced


To a Self-Proclaimed A-Hole

You should have come with a warning label
or maybe I should have
thinking back, it was my idea

I saw you as glass
perfectly transparent, but fragile
with a large crack hidden behind
scotch brand cellophane tape
and tiny ones that were still sharp enough to cut my fingers
and they did.

When you found me, I was empty
I filled myself with the desire to protect you
mostly from me
If someone somewhere is keeping score
I don’t want to see it
I know how many red marks I have against me
I didn’t want another for you

I knew it was a bad idea
from past experiences and chick flicks
but we both agreed that we
we’re not something that would work
even if we ground down our edges
we are two jigsaw pieces that almost fit

still, I read my lines perfectly
so did you
and somewhere amid the laughter and the jokes
somewhere between the smiles and the tears
I found myself closer to being whole
I was yours, even though I knew you’d never be mine
the plot was stale and over far too quickly
they always are

even if you did come with a warning
I’d have been too stubborn to heed it.

Eyes Closed, Head Down, Mouth Shut

By now, I’m sure you noticed, and think that I don’t care
but I promise this obsession will force my will to tear
acting like I do not see you, that I do not understand
putting life under surveillance, was not part of my plan

I was never very cautious, didn’t think it’d make me weak
but I’ve sewn my mouth so tightly I’m no longer free to speak
from fear that these opinions make the situation worse
but this self-inflicted silence is like a blinding curse

I just want things to be normal
want our lives to just go on
cause the shorter the leash you put me on
the farther I will run

Little Paper Scraps

I cannot be defined by a sheet of paper
not by a letter in the alphabet
not by the words Bachelor, Master, or Doctor
I do not want to be seen for my ability to hide behind a desk
to show everyone just how obedient I can be
I am not a dog

I am one who is molded by words zipped together by actions
not to be remembered as the
first hand in the air
but for the first Idea on the whiteboard, once blackboard,
now spreadsheet

Alphabet soup,
is for children and those too afraid
to slip into their own skin
listen to their own ideas
and live the first day of their life as their own being

I’m not saying that higher education is bad
no, but without an end goal
without some idealized profession that requires an education
higher than what our own government is inclined to provide
when they stop layering information for the betterment of society
and begin lining their pockets using fear tactics and
makeshift blindfolds

Getting a higher degree
while already holding a dusty scrap of paper
with fancy university scribble printed above
my name: first, middle, and last
is just another way to pretend like I don’t know who I am

Her and Me

I remember her
so naïve
unsure what she wanted to be
thinking she didn’t need to choose
not yet
that was for the grown-up, me.

She thought for sure she wanted to write
but was told and retold “that’s not life”
she needed to be more realistic
find something with a steady paycheck

Still, she etched her words across delicate pages
in the margins of her notes and papers
she wrote stories of hopscotch and missing the bus
with plot holes deeper than pot holes
leaving me more confused than Winnie the Pooh

as unstoppable as Saturn’s Hurricane
she persevered through predominant words
telling her that this won’t work
that she needs education, to get her degree
despite it all, she disagreed.

“It’s not the money that drives me
or the promise of pay
or even the thought that all I will need one day
is this pen and this paper and these thoughts in my head
manifesting on pages itching to be read”

But she isn’t me
at least, not anymore
I got a degree, and a job, a front door
a room and a roof and a regular pay
she may be upset
think I gave it all away

but she can’t see
I still clutch her pen
and have mock conversations as if on a park bench
to spread her word and remind the masses that
they are not Atlas
I’ll scratch ink on pages ‘til they all believe
their past is was and always will be
part of them, like her and me.

August 6, 1945 – If Shadows Spoke

no flesh, no bone, both vaporized
instantaneously i believe
still Here i am upon a wall
my only existence outlined
by its real color
degraded to less than the wind

If you look carefully, you might just see
a hat atop my head
tilted ever so slightly
my hand Reaching up to grab it
fix it, last thoughts wasted.

look around
there’s more like me
that child so new such joy
trapped behind a white curtain
forced to watch
families fade

and Over there a mother!
walking home from getting food
look at her now.
all that remains is her outline mid-step
See that? her shopping bag
her purse around her wrist
gone leaving nothing
but a depthless mark
her face lost in shadows, nevertheless
her exact Height, and shape

what’s going on?
this Is all wrong
like shattered metal whales
reflecting light of
empty families
whistling their name
drawing their grave.

what More is there to say?
but the rubble between your toes
was a human yesterday!
a bright young girl
with hair in braids
who laughed and loved to sing
no more than eight
jumping rope down a road
now littered with broken families

remember the white daisy
that worked its way through cracks
it seems it enveloped
this entIre town in just a flash
but it was hot,
no, not just hot
the sparks that soar from clashing swords
melting through everything in their path.

i have seen the fate of survivors
open sores everywhere
bubbling thick tomato soup
and bursting water balloons filled with tar
dead dismembered – unborn
tangled children – born
mourning siblings, parents
no escape.

i remember my own miseries
And you, i hope will never understand
smell of molten flesh
rotten corpses
a city dissolved in seconds.

A Poet’s Dilemma

I am not a poet.
I do not count my syllables or rime my lines
I do not scratch pages with metaphors so deep, their meaning soars above my head.
I am not a poet because I don’t write for everyone…
I write for me.
I am not a poet.
If I read in front of everyone, or a room, or one person,
I would hear no snaps, get no claps, have no feeling of elation from what others think.
Would I?  No, I am no poet, and I don’t know how to be one.

But you are a poet!

I guess, maybe, with the right light, the right background… I am, aren’t I?
If I tell myself enough times, maybe I just might believe it.
I am a poet. I am a poet. I am… me.
I always write my truth
fill every line with emotions too strong to hold in one body.
I won’t stop.
Not even when I am out of words to write.
Not even when my emotions lay dormant just out of my grasp.
I do not need recognition, nor fans, fortune, or fame.
All I need is the subtlety of language married to the written word.
I am a poet.


I am not a toy
to be put on a shelf
because you are bored.
Not an experiment
ready to sit and collect dust
while you collect data.

I don’t have the energy to
fold my hands on one knee
cross my legs like a
lady in a fashion magazine
and ponder if you
will ever want to play again.

I refuse to wait here quietly, patiently
for you to realize that I’m still here
that I still hang on every word you don’t say.
That I, covered in dust so thick I
wonder if I will ever see my skin while your
lack of presence is a heavy weight in my chest
wasting energy I don’t have just to keep my spirit
from the darkness that it was left in.

I refuse to wait for a proper goodbye
but I fear I will be waiting here forever.

My Pen

It knows everything about me
from how I write my letters
to what my words mean
it reminds me to be true
‘cause ink doesn’t lie
Ink can’t be erased
doesn’t fade over time

My pen
is an extension of my hand
like a cell phone
but much less bland

I wouldn’t trade it
not for the world
not for green paper
not for keyboards
though sometimes I cheat on it with
Microsoft Word
it knows I will always return

My pen
my window to my soul
see without it
I’m lost
stare at blank paper
get locked in the madness
that doesn’t have sound
without it words foreign
to my mouth, my tongue
Can’t be Found.


I don’t understand
no matter how I try
why children and adults
are forced to live a lie
how so many around us
don’t realize the truth

Justice is Unjust

but there’s something we can do
almost every person
cares what other people think
and the outspoken voices
are the ones that truly sting
those who should be speaking
sit quietly and watch

Indifference is Infectious

and it all needs to be stopped
stop preaching all this poison
the body count is far too high
there should be no reason
that children wish to die

I’m standing on my soapbox
making my opinion heard
so listen to me closely

Cause I’m speaking more than words.