In My Corner

I watch the lightening strike,

outside my window as the thunder rumbles by.

The rain makes the sound of a 1990’s New Age album

put out by Windam Hill.

The only thing that breaks up the beauty

is the siren of an ambulance racing down Plymouth Street

and I’m reminded of where I am.

In my corner studio, freshly painted with the windows open

and me sitting here in the dark with a candle burning bright.

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Teach Your Children Well

Never turn a blind eye
to the salt in the wound of humanity
Do not perpetuate the reason for the salt
Be humble in the face of peace and love
for it doesn’t solve all problems
Speak on the level of tolerance
Listen to the answers when asking
a question.
Open up a dialogue
and ask yourself
what kind of world do I want future children
to live in
Do not be colorblind but
respect and love
your differences
We are a melting pot of knowledge
and culture
and hope
and history
Learn
Teach
Embrace
The future should never regress
Mistakes made
should be lessons learned
and tides should change
for the better
Teach our children well
to love
to accept
to shake the hand
to touch the salt and move it
out of the way
so wounds can
eventually heal

Sometimes I Say Too Much

Sometimes I say too much.
I wear my emotions like a comfortable blanket and
the need to share my excitement can not be contained.
I’m not one to mask my feelings.
I’m not good at it.
Get a few beers in me and
I’ll tell you my life story.
Hell, I’ll tell you my story anyway.
There is a need to purge myself
of my flaws and
hope that others will learn
from my stupid mistakes.
I am honest to a fault, but
horde certain parts of myself like
a shroud never to see the light of day.
I care about how others see me and
I like to be liked.
There are days however, that
I long to just pack up and go
where no one knows my name.
To be that random girl that you meet
in a coffee shop,
have a great conversation with,
and then remember from time to time
as if it were a dream.
I am awkward and
too hard on myself.
I over analyze everything until
my soul hurts.
I am a walking contradiction.
I am an introvert and
a social butterfly.
I am exhausted with
trying to be someone I’m not.
Where is my Etch a Sketch for life.

A Mother’s Lament

Angry wilted flower of youth
trying to put a new step forward
Tired of pushing another to
do for themselves
Tired of the resistant wall
that can’t be knocked down
Tired of not being heard
or thought of
or appreciated
Cry through the heartache
Yell through the anger
Take a step back
let them fall
let them fail
let them hurt
let them know
you will be there
Suffering and loving
until they understand
for themselves
is easier said than done

Cold

No one. No one can tell you how to feel.
This is a liberation of how humans are SUPPOSED to feel.
They are not SUPPOSED to cry overly much.
They are NOT supposed to tear up at sad movies
or ads or births or deaths or dances
grasp the silence of a new joy
They do not cry at the death of a parent and they
sob at the cruel intentions of the treatment of animals
The girl in the corner shivers and hisses
She feels her pain, your pain, and his
She has now freedom as the kitten cries for food that is no more
The cold dream of what will NEVER come
The cold dream of what isn’t there
I feel you
In my head
In my dream
In the cold damp earth.

Drunk

I am drunk within the confines of my mind
and I simmer with the light that shines through your soul
I delight with your music and your wisdom and your
smell and your sun drenched goodness and chocolate
and wine
I am lost to your touch and your spiciness and lust
I am cold with your lost love and your sadness and hope
lost within your own grasp
She leans into your heart
and your lungs
and your breasts
She touches your skin
with the longing of a child
She hurts for your lips for they
are untouched
And she weeps for the dew
that falls on your cheeks.

The Master and the Cursed

This is a replacement poem based on Brian Turner’s Here, Bullet
Please visit his website http://www.brianturner.org/sections/here-bullet/

If a soul is what you want,
then take my sweat, tears, and blood
Here are the whips and chains
the hand that brings them down
thoughts are what you mask
Here is my heart to break and curse
that damaged flesh, never to be repaired
into the dark abyss. And you ask for
me to forgive you. Because you, wait
here to be brought to your knees
hissing with the pain you have caused others
the concrete slab that I’m lying on
my body racked with hunger and cold,
inside I’m gone, already thinking of beyond
spun in a web of hate, because you, wait
here in your creation, your own personal hell.

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