Category Archives: Poetry

I don’t tell myself ‘i love you”I let the sun caramelize my skinI watch the ocean lazily traceAll of the places that I’ve beenI bury my toes in ancient soilLift my head to an indigo skyI am buoyed by the silenceAnd the absence of so-called time.I’ll make myself a picnic:strawberries and a cup of chai;fallContinue reading “I don’t tell myself ‘I love you…’”

I’ve touched God beforeHeld him in my handsA small specimen throbbing with lightWhile suffocated by a blanket of duskA beacon of hopeI’ve seen God kiss the grassWith his lusterAnd muster up a glow so magicalIt permeates the dewey summer airI’ve seen him flickerFade in and out Like stars Even though he’s always thereClose enoughTo beContinue reading “Fireflies”

My six year old selfBelieved in fairiesShe would scavenge in our backyardAnkles caked with mudDigging for earthwormsAnd buried treasureNot knowing the treasure that was staring her right in the face My seven year old self Liked to escapeBetween the binding Of a torn paperback She dog-eared pages With her tiny hands And thought there wasContinue reading “through the ages…”

I wonder when you learnedthat beauty is immortal Yesterday I saw yousoaring through thepouring rainorange and black wingssoddenLike coffee stainson parchment paperBut today you are nothing But a piece of poetry crumpled by gods fists Lying on the side of the roadWith ants gnawing at your feetDear dead butterfly, Who gave you wings?Who spawned you from your silk-spunContinue reading “dear dead butterfly:”

and there’s a picture above my father’s desk ofa little girlon his back, giddywith joyand smiling ear to ear I’m 17and this is when I start to wonderWhere all the time wentWhen leisurely mid-afternoon walksCatching cottonwood seeds like FairiesTurned into hoursCloistered indoorsAnd growing became somethingUglyI’m 17And people tell me”You don’t need to have it allContinue reading “i’m 17”

about a dozen timesnot realizing that I am still living between margined lines.The same story again and againlike a broken record.The same tale with the same endingwhich never gets any better.So I picked up another book on the shelfRead it once or twiceAnd noticing the blank pageswithout hesitationbegan to write. I wrote myself a libraryIContinue reading “i’ve picked up the same book”

being is as simple as breathingis as simple as creatingis as simple as writing.being is as simple as believingis as simple as failingis as simple as tryingbeing is as simple as livingis as simple as losingis as simple as dyingbeing is as simple as lovingis as simple as hurtingis as simple as flying.

There is only one wolf…The story of the two wolvesis an old Cherokee legendtwisted from the gnarled fingersof the glitteringancient mind.But if every honeybee is blessed with a cursed stinger why do we sentence our Shadowselvesto swarm for eternityinside?I believe there is a fatalmonster that is silently lurking,underneath my iron bones and in my whistlingContinue reading “The things you hate about yourself…”