we are not stories that can be
re-written, we cannot
re:imagine things in order to
repair them, nor heal with
the power of thought.
we walk forward and fast and
messily and beautifully
wakes of destruction behind,
striding briskly toward what
hope we have left,
faint as it may be.

featured on "with those who, a journal of empathy" by founder Ben Devries, October 2010



i gave up rain for faucets,
built my own cave to
dwell inside.
i take weapons to my hair and
brushes to my
(painted) face.
baby's milk's made
in a factory, and i'm
not talkin' 'bout my body.
i even grow my own food faster
than you ever could.
mother earth, i am
not your machine.

definitely not as free-flowing as what i generally aim for, but i found it difficult to create the imagery in any kind of comfortably flowing or well-put together piece. some days, everything just feels so synthetic, and that is all i mean to portray.



bow in hair, and
skirt falling over daddy's lap, she
is told she is

barely brave enough to say
yes, skirt falling down her legs and she
just wants to hear that she's

as wise as she is wrinkled, she
is tired and worn with time, and she
is realizing she has always been


poised to soar.

other cheek turned, i am more
broken than before, still somehow
poised to soar


to create.

is not to think or to outline or
to brainstorm, is not
methodical, does not
always require forethought or
an intensive trajectory, simply
an onset of inexorable urge
most likely a result of
daydreams, fantasizing, and the
instinctive wandering of the subconscious

it is breathing in air and
   exhaling beauty



i have little else apart from these
faint recollections, these
fading images of a
distant past

i am so out of touch with my
own reality, that i
cannot recall whether they are
flickering memories or
the result of a dangerous and
frightened and
vivid imagination.

rough. haven't written in a while. feels good, though.


the weight of silence.

she would much rather bear the
burden of prosecution than
the weight of silence



what joy onced overwhelmed is now
equally difficult to keep hold of

where tears once ran, a scowl now
rests, annoyed at a day's work forfeited
financial strains and disciplinary actions and
to be frank, a waste of
perfectly good time

heartbroken, still

living very against the grain, but not for
the sake of rebellion

rather, in opposion of
complacency and apathy and the
deadness inevitable via the
road conventionally travelled

for the unheard and
unseen and
love and



so critical of our
flawed, imperfect neighbor until
we need whatever
ability they possess that we
do not

i am a waste of space,
with a spark of purpose

we can never forgive, never
set aside our pride, never
cease to hate until we
can benefit from these
god-forsaken sinners

seems as though people are treated this way far too often.



wanting things not our own, we
make our way in, so

the thrusting of our own desires into
vulnerable shadows, so
mistakenly exposed, so
agonizing on the entry

i can pretend this doesn't hurt or i can
fight you off, i can
attempt to disappear into my
vague recollections of
a happier time

willing the end

there is no
dismount, only invade and
invade again and i


god has wisely kept us in the dark concerning future events and reserved for himself the knowledge of them, that he may train us up in a dependence upon himself and a continued readiness for every event.
-matthew henry



i may be rough around the
edges but i'm still
breakable on the inside

all the wear and tear of a
beloved paperback, plus the
fragility of an infant, minus the

weathered by heartache and
seasoned by the calloused hearts i've
given mine away to, i'm just

one hot mess


the heat of this moment.

i used to admire your beauty as you
stood so tall, shading the
sunlight and softening the fall of
the rain

it chilled me to watch as you
walked through your fire
guess it's an inevitability, even for the best of us
purpose is pain

that soft blaze quickly grew to a
raging inferno
my stomach turning as the
flames licked at you, so
stripped down and vulnerable

soon i didn't recognize you at all

while you seem so frail
this is perhaps your finest moment
made perfect in the sacrifice
of your conventional beauty

you are charred and black and
aged and

and you are falling to pieces

still, in the heat of this moment
you are most beautiful
dying and rebirthing and i am
enveloped by your warmth and i

cannot take my eyes off you