Note to self: “What you waiting for?”

We pick flowers from their beds
While they stand firm and bright,
Proudly put them in a vase,
Showcase them like a prize.
Then one night their petals wilt,
Colors start to fade and dry,
In the morning we wake up
And throw them out to die.

Thirty one petals


The poem above is a walk through of some feelings, fears that have been creeping in on me the last year. Every year Time, Calendar, and Mirror tell me I am older, but I only feel myself growing young. I am a little with an old soul, born into the world with aged insides and a humble heart to big for my tiny body. I am finding age gifts me loosened palms and the courage of a child that I never had.

I turned 31 this month. Happy late birthday to me.

Note to self: “What you waiting for?”


I have let the thought of “us”
Marinate for quite some time.
As this thought has sat soaking,
Bathing in dreams and fantasies,
It has only become more


Near and far

Easy it is to miss you,
Though tonight your bed is warm,
Tomorrow it will be cold, waiting,
Another week goes by till you return.
Now seven days feels like a year,
So it makes sense when you come home,
How my heart always aches with mourning,
Then it melts to how you’ve grown.


Kiss me

Kiss me one more time,
So that I can feel something
Better than this,
So I can feel your tongue
Against mine,
So I can taste the salt
Of your busy day
and know that after
You are still



Not a Maiden or a Crone

I am empty with child,
A forgotten mother,
A sad barren soul
That aches to be woman
Again with a nest gone dry
Before it was time to wean.
Too young to be the crone,
But was barely a maiden.
Two eggs half stolen
By law or sickened rights,
I hold my womb tenderly
As it once carried fragile life.



Slipping away slow,
Salty tears stain cheeks,
Slick streaks of sadness
Sting skin known to scar.
Silent sins speak sounds softly,
Sweet sighs might be whimpers,
Saying secrets so sinlessly.
Swords stab with silver slices,
Singing surrender with each swing.
Stripped bare, scared senseless,
Standing still against strong wind.
Sinuous sky rains smothered souls,
Searching for safety or for sorrows,
Suspicious or sadistic, and
So-called synthetic
Silk that smells like serpentine.