Category: Poetry
-
Stranded between night and day As darkness unleashes her demons And daylight reveals What I choose not to see Wanting to dream, but fearful of nightmares Wanting to feel, but fearful of pain Wanting to live, but fearful to be…..
-
Without the aid of wind to sway Without eyes to see me lavish in green and bloom Or ears to hear the music from my leaves Or just hear me fall dead in the nigh of winter Without anyone to see and observe me, I am then but a tree grown nowhere, tall in silence…
-
If a poem falls… Loving words Not heard or spoken Crashing silently to the ground. If I wrote a poem And no one reads I wonder… Did it make a sound?
-
Nose sniffing-movie Eyes stinging-dust Eyes dubbing-yawn Fast blinking-pollen Chopping onions-lots and lots of onions everyday There are plenty of ways you see, To explain away the tears If you’re trying to hide them.
-
Today am a strange mixture of things unknown Familiar yet foreign are the emotions coming my way. The ever-present sadness of knowing all which was, and has been combined with the excitation, and exhilaration, of the unexplored. Understanding all the while those distant things will never be mine to hold.—
-
Quite exciting, isn’t it? Writing death threats? Old receipts crumble a delicacy, Where tastes account for nothing, A bird on the window, And the wind whisper a shadow. The sky is red as the devil, Hands tied in litter, I’ve got no taste for peace, While wars are ranging. Disturbance…. Sick and slick with ignited…
-
I play among perfect flowers, Scented, sweet, in rich black soil. Am tempted to peek at the forest, One tires of the rose, To see the untouched, overgrown, hungry weeds that thrive. I am told not to play their dangerous lurks, Wild and untamed, But I think its fine not being perfect, It’s different, when…
-

Dreams And dreams, And dreams, Walking grace, And in passion, In desire too. Rivers changing courses, Clouds defying description, Spectacular right before they’re gone, Slipping my grasp, in the first ray of dawn.
-
In some corner of the world, A small corner, I am bent over an old musty poetry book, With yellowing pages, And a smell of age, In a different language, but same, Most have never learned to read, It smells of pipe smoke and old coffee, Of warm cozy evenings and sunny Sunday mornings, And…
-
I’m just a girl, With words, And when those words dry up, Am just a girl, Lost, In the static, In the white noise.