A Grainy Kindness

I should of the let the fingers sink in,

play uninhibitedly with my hair and skin,

Tangling and soothing,

Should of let it grasp me,

tie me closer,

bring me in,


clouds to free fall rain,

should of let it dissolve me,

Evaporate my being into nonexistence,

gave myself one precious cathartic lie,


Life is blatant true,

every honesty I took to,

as lost creatures do,

I should steep,

I should cry,

not a blame,

or a tear to my eye,

I should indulge,

I should glean,

from bit to bit,

and seam to seam,



clutch something,


embrace touching,

on a gentle periphery,

let me be,

let me be,

too far gone,

I am the moon,

just after the sun,

second to come,

left over for none.


Language of Love

Its makes me distraught when I speak through the language of love and it falls upon deaf ears. I thought love was an univeral language. I just want to communicate with the cosmos inside of you.

Mermaid Angel

when I first saw you

you looked like an angel

all sad and forlorn

I wanted to go over

and sooth you

you looked like a fallen angel

like God had failed

and forgotten you

your eyes were an unseeing glaze

your movements an unfeeling ghostly grace

and then you opened your petite delicious mouth

and you started singing

you sound like a broken heart

strumming broken strings

veins cut and bleeding

injure struck and wounded

it wasn’t harsh

but soft

like the dripping cascade cloud of your hair

in running waves

and the cushioned pillow of your lips

the cast warm brown of your irises

all warmth and sullen

like cinnamon and  brown sugar

so sweet

astoundingly luscious

the peels of your voice

echo across the halls of my heart

with sharp imprints of cadence

encapsulating my being

with cocooned wonder

salt never unveiled such sweetness

as the cries of your tender song

and unshed tears

would you cry for me now?

would you cry so sweetly forever?

I would listen readily

an eternity

on and on

my goddess of the sea

swimming mermaid of my heart

angel fallen for me

I am the God you’ll never part.

The Secret Cycle

I wonder if I should kill myself

everyday it comes back to this

at least once

I wonder

why I do this

keep struggling

keep suffering

all this pain

for just a moment of beauty

I hate it sometimes

I hate the ignorance people share

the ignorance they keep alive

out of hatred and fear’

of themselves

How can they do that?

experience all that pain

and still try to put someone else through it

It scares me

people really scare me

how ugly they can be to each other

and everyday I think

I do not want to live in a world

with all of this deliberately enforced ignorance


everything I adore

by continuing to live

to tolerate the ignorance

I want to scream

I want to cry

I want something I do to change it

but nothing ever does

I can’t even help those closer to me

and why do I KEEP GOING

keep living

it all feels hopeless

Iook around at these people

and they carry around this sense of hopeless


and it hurts like nothing else

it seems endless


like everything I know to be beautiful

and it drains me

I feel emptier every moment in their presence

I feel void


and if I want lovely experiences

I have to suffer these heart wrenching instances

possibility seems fragile

Yes, I am life’s lover

with a lethal hunger

I would miss music

I would miss singing

I feel like a lie

my words fall on empty spaces

and that only death hears

I pass on phantomlike

and all the beauty I give

is retrieved by wandering air

I give nothing to life

I am space

I don’t know why

if this is self pity

or the actions towards me

really are careless

without taste

or consideration

I am in love with a life that doesn’t love me

in a one sided romance

I don’t want to be foolish

or pathetic anymore

one should know when to bow out

with honor


and truth

I don’t want to be like these senseless creatures

I am tired of feeling so small

I try to grasp to the positivity

make it real

I focus on precious things

but it comes back

like throw up

that my pretty things

don’t belong

is this still self hatred

I thought I was working on this

I thought I knew

I still don’t know

it feels real

too real

I feel really sick

horrendously sick

this poison sits in my tummy





I am afraid

I hate fear

It doesn’t make sense

but nothing makes sense anymore

I am choking on mountain air

so alive to death

rotting to life

I look for comfort

but what is comforting anymore

I hold myself

falling apart

I never want to cry

but lost feels like evaporating steam

I am a dream

within a dream

within a dream

no one was ever listening


no one

so was I really speaking

ever living

might as well go

there is nothing left to know

if this is certain

and nothing is certain

I write in a full room

people shuffle back and forth

passing by

not me

not here

I can’t be seen

yes, this must be a dream

not my dream

Living is dying









I am exhausted by the cycle

mental illness runs deep in my veins

no one would blame

its expected to be insane

Its no surprise

I am just another life

why do I go on

like I belong

do any of us


each question

I die

every answer

has two

one bright

one dim

one lie

one true

nothing else to do

but keep pushing through

maybe someday

ill find something


maybe it will finally mean

and Ill know

I wasn’t a waste

with every death

I find my place

still want to die

and I do

I do

with every dream



and truth




Dying is living

I am alive

glad to die

The Endless Question

I don’t want to go through this again. Doing things over and over with ends that never end. Is peace a illusion we create to torture ourselves? Is peace accepting everything? I am afraid to have faith because I might be wrong. If reality is just perception then we are all right and wrong. Is there one truth that is communicated through many truths? If I keep faith and this faith is wrong, will this faith lead me to the true faith? Will the wrong truth be a waste of time? Does it all count to get to what is true? What sustains us? If what we consider worthy is up to us then how does that all come into together in truth? I feel I know and I don’t know. I don’t mind what I know but should what I don’t know concern me? Is asking myself all these questions really constructive to my well being? Is asking myself all these questions just making things worse by dwelling for answers. Do answers really matter in the end. After all we don’t get the answers until after we reach the destination. So is worrying really constructive? Is all my thinking, observing, and analyzing getting me no where? Why should I care? Is my mind my worst enemy? Should I not think and just feel? Instincts are never wrong right? It is easier to feel. Yet, feelings are unpredictable and not at all like logic. Do I fear the unknown? If I do, I don’t like to. I don’t like fearing anything. It feels wrong and ignorant. Are we all ignorant slightly even if we don’t want to be? Perhaps by having faith we put belief into the parts of us that know no matter what. Should I trust myself? All I hear is I can’t be trusted. I want to put trust and faith in something. I am so tired of having nothing to turn to. No where to go and nothing to love. If I can’t trust anything else can’t I at least trust myself? I AM TIRED HEARING OTHER PEOPLE TRYING TO THINK FOR ME. I want to be me and then not be anymore. I want to live while I can and let it go. I am tired of this heavy load. It is overwhelming. I am tired of being overwhelmed. I want to love and trust myself. Have faith mistaken or not. Does it really matter in the end? It all just keeps going  on without me anyway. Might as well live as I please. I am lost as always. I feel small. A child.

The Passing

I press my soft ear

to your tender hungry heart

I want to hear what strong sounds like,

Is it loud?

can something so small

hear something so big

are the veins swollen

with your magnitude

are the cells more ambitious

is the iron of a different strength

what separates us


a body

a mind

a soul

your vitality

so apparent

is it a choice

is it design

I let go

these small hands

can’t grasp hold of huge

these tiny hands

tend dainty things

I’d lend my hand

but you don’t seem to need much help

I keep to little things

I want to be independent too

appreciated for all I can do

tired of being torn down

my petals plucked

and my thorns ignored

what is beauty for?

A scent so sweet

could I appeal to something as harsh as you?

I am just a flower

amongst wilderness

a moment

nothing more


What do you find precious?

I find the sky

it is constant

ever changing

but always there

yes, I dream

but my dream stays

come and go

come and go

so very confusing

with no roots

to stabilize us

is nature so cruel?

or are we ungrateful?


you catch me on the wind

drifting away

my petals in the stream

my scent a memory on the breeze

on autumn eve

was I ever real

was there ever me?

or am I just life

and life

again life

after life

so life

on life

about life

through life

around life

amongst life


circles in circles

is this sempiternal?

Should I be afraid?

or should I just let it go

should I just go

cause we all do

a flower

a prince

an eternity

passing by you

To Love or Not To Love?

Love seems such a foreign thing at times. I don’t think I love the way other people do. Perhaps I never learned the appropriate way. If there is an appropriate way to love. I love art mostly, more than I can love people.

Art consumes my every thought and attention. People I shove out of my brain. They never satisfy me the way art does. They hardly make me feel as happy or feel as complete. The people that haunt me are monstrous and insatiable. I want not anything to do with them.

Loving humans is brief, momentary. Loving art seems endless and easy. I never feel guilty, unfulfilled, inadequate, misunderstood, or unworthy with art. It does not judge, ridicule, belittle, degrade, or damage me in any way. Art is a love that nurtures without sacrifice.

I try to love humans always. I try to apply myself to my species with loyalty. I don’t think people want to be loved always. Why would they push you away, attack, or hurt you if they did? Though I understand the reasoning behind their psychosis, I cannot not fathom their insanity.

I understand art. Art I fathom real well. Art I can ponder on for lifetimes exhaustlessly. It seems everyday, I must find continuous motivation to keep loving the people in my life. I am considerate, kind, loving, altruistic, and they seem so unsatisfied. So distraught with themselves and everyone.

Who would want to waste time being miserable all the time? No, Art is loving. Humans, I can’t pretend to know what they are or how they love. We love so differently.


Acting An Art

Before I can stop myself I push to the middle of the room like an overheated atom. I am trembling, tittering on the edge of who the character is and who I am. I cheerfully say my name with the last moment of who I am. Then I calmly say the part I am about to portray. The edges blur over then and I am not me. I am a wreck and blurting,” It’s not about the money.”

I feel alien to my own being. Intruding upon, a spectator to someone else’s fears and insecurity. A lingering shadow feasting on the embodiment of a falling apart marriage. “It’s about having a dream.” I hear the catches in my voice like vomit caught in a gag when it would be best to just release. Its a tightrope balancing act. Will the character break?

Is the character going to cry? She sounds so broken with nothing left. Who is she? She sounds like giving up. She sounds like broken apart and sinking. She sounds like a defeated wife with nothing left to lose.

I am in the background observing her shattering, shaking. Wonder if I exist anymore. I can taste her bitterness like poignant sulfur and gasoline. This is destruction and erosion. An unraveling of being, right before my observation.

I can see her tearing off her skin and not being anymore. A giving up and fed up is obvious here. A sickening of destroying that people do to each other. As if we are items instead of being. You want me to be an Item I will be.  You want me to break, I will.

When you realize I am not a thing, you will be too late. .”Is this why we don’t make love anymore?” She ends. I step back into my spirited body. Look around at the havoc wretched upon my class. That character did something here and I let her. She walked up, kicked guts and slapped realization into being. She is not okay. None of us are okay.

She interrupted our safety of impersonal and practice. In this room of acting 1 and accepted mistakes. She made this serious and personal. Forced us to wonder how far our liberties really go with each other. Eyes are wide, air is heavy and thin. Is it okay to breath? To move? Will we intrude further?

Then a clapping, releasing of tension. We let it go. We let her go. We understand and that understanding is beautiful. Acting isn’t a play, it’s a communication. Essentially we heard it then. What we are really doing here. Not a class anymore. A standard.

I guess we were all surprised, even me. Emotional was not what we prepared for. We take it with grace and appreciation. We let it be. This is acting. This is anything and everything real. It became animated, we felt it. What we are really doing here. Communicating. Understanding. Accepting.

A socially accepted practice of loving.  Wide open. For Everyone

A Missing Link

     I was intruding, I know it. As I gazed upon the intimacy of mother and child in this cocoon of safety and acceptance. I heard the child in me whisper, “Look, what’s that? I have never felt that before.” I felt that childish urging, begging for me to look, asking me what they were doing. My child is a child deprived of intimacy.

      Confused dear, I can never tell that child No. So I look closer, look upon the normality of the mother. What’s a mother? No, its the child that my child is interested in. Looking upon the child, I smile bitter sweetly with unthreatening jealousy. I let the feeling come and go.

      That feeling wanders in when ever I see a joy filled child. It’s nothing new to me. I look closer at that child’s face. His being spilling with joy and trust. I suddenly wish I could hold him. I wish I could feel his inner dwellings, against my flesh that has never known either. I ache with the yearning to reach out, take hold of him, and touch him. Just touch him. Somehow get close to that amazing thing.

     I watch his miniature hands wander over his mothers shoulders so leisurely like practice. I look back up at his face where his eyes have settled upon my intrusion. He stills, his mother takes no notice, his eyes acknowledge me for an instance with discomfort then wander on with disinterest. I think I want cry. I think he is so beautiful.

     I think I feel alone, curious, and encouraging all at once. Yet, I am smiling again as he laughs my way. I want this stranger of a boy to be happy. I don’t ever want him to be like me. It’s my deepest blessing, that this beautiful being, never knows what I have known. I want to kiss his smooth cheeks. I want to play with his little open hands that keep wandering. I want his little arms warm and plush with health to chamber me.

     I want to put my nose into his warm trust and smell what it feels like. I want to gently handle his tiny frame until my curiosity is sated. If it is ever sated. I love him. I feel so empty and I love him. He is like Peter Pan to me. I want to fly after him, following his shadow of bliss.

     Every moment watching him I feel a glowing within. I can taste his profound serenity and he is so pure to me. Quite suddenly, I wish bitterly, that he never grows up. I love him so dearly in just a moment that it is unbearable. I love him too much and I hardly love myself the right way in any instance. A baby can be so precious, beyond our understanding of precious.

     I understand him preciously. I wonder if his mother loves him right. I wonder if she looks upon him with wonder and uncontrollable love. I hope he is adored and will always be. I could stare upon him forever. In his endless dark serene eyes. I think I did in that moment. I think I stared at his Essence and all the Essence’s. I think I got lost in loving.

     I think God of Essence was there and enchanting me. I think The Essence swims in the oceans of children the way it never can in an adults small pond. I don’t want to be an adult. I want to be an ocean , a sea, I want the Essence to swim in me. Maybe I am mistaken and I never wanted to be. I DON’T KNOW. Hmm, maybe I am a child.



The Flower Creature

A flower bulb in blossoming

a tiny upturned face

plump with spring

eyes as curious as fey

a smile to awe

a laugh to be

such a precious creature

tiny fingers clutch to me

a tiny cheek


soft and strange

to my weathered neck

I thought I was young

without name

but I am as old as I feel

 little arms around my shoulders

betell my years

 I am not so delicate

so easy to wonder

give wide eyed

give wandering touches

so free

this new creature

so eager

to love

to learn

its hair a whisper of silkiness

its teeth tiny imprints

its voice peeling


with excitement

I can’t remember being a child

when I left it


I would be child

I would believe

and be

I wish I was

I wish all days

I forgot

so to begin

so to see

as I see

not with fast paced judgment

but with slow captivating awe

cleanse me of critique

bath me in undefinable

I yearn to live

I yearn to be born

let my hands

spill over every surface

in appreciative gaze







so wonderful

I would trade places

to feel its skin

the way it feels mine

This creature

of tiny worlds

in such a great space

I would look upon it

as it looks upon me





so certain

a baby

a child

it’s hearts pitter patters

against my too large one

and I am not small enough

I want to crawl

into its opportunity

let us


without any sense

using our senses

to feel

to inspire

 to giggle

to enjoy

let us be

we will give such

lovely tasting

to the rich lushness of life

every flavor

to marvel upon



let me start over

I would so like to be spring

a flower



so full

with nothing to do

but be whole

and love

if not

give me this creature

let me adore it

give me many creatures

I shall cherish them all

as if


if only

I was

as they

every envy

every jealousy

every yearning

will be a love

onto itself

for I will know

with every insight

they birth

and just


I shall mother to spring

every spring

so there will always be spring

for all of us who grew up

with out an inkling

of what we were leaving

without promise

of a flower

to wonder upon

spring always

spring come.