If tomorrow I die,
Would you come to say goodbye?
Would you come to see my face,
for one last time?
Would you then at last realize,
the love I had was true,
that even at my death-bed,
I’m still thinking of you.
If tomorrow I die,
without saying goodbye.
Would you miss me when I’m dead?
Please do miss me and be sad.
I’m being selfish, yes I know,
but it’ll give meaning to my goals.
It was to ‘Love’ you.
Just to love you, with my all.
she was afraid of
making the space
because it never
felt like there was
room for her to
be who she wanted.
maybe it was the
stares & laughs who
chased her mind over
the ones who taunted
or the silent tears
after giving her all
to the space just to
be rejected of her
place. Continue reading To Disown Her Space
when the seeds of doubt start sprouting
they become weeds that overwhelm my garden
and bleed into the soil. Continue reading out of whack
Born To It
a poem is conceived in private
much like a child
the wild, Holy consummation, all consuming
born of love
but bearing so much pain and suffering,
muffled cries, truths and lies,
sometimes the difference is hard to find.
I was born with bated breath,
fresh and clean,
once they wiped off the blood and amniotic fluid
and cut the cord
scissors like a sword
severing the most sacred connection
that I will ever know.
I was born to it
and there is no place quite like home.
What is Poetry? – part 3
Poetry doesn’t necessarily rhyme,
it just climbs out of the mind,
out of a recess in time,
obsessed with success
and blind to the cold shoulder it usually finds.
It’s a mess, it’s sublime,
it’s a knife as a prize,
it is life in the eyes,
it is death, of a kind,
it’s leaving something behind,
it’s caressing the past
and the future that lies,
dormant though brooding
Who says poetry is dead?
What is Poetry? – Part 2
Poetry is the forsaken cry, the loneliest voices with the loudest minds,
captured in ink, blighted by drink, or bolstered,
emboldened with the bravado to think big,
to sing on a page,
to rage against the silence of days
spent drifting through the passive malaise,
the love of something and not for how it pays.
Poetry is the air up there, despair in the mind of a scribe
at not being able to fly, so it is
the flight of birds described by those who live in unknowns
to those who dream of being free.
Poetry is anything between a sucker punch or a long lunch,
a coupe de grace or a warm embrace.
It’s the lines of life in a face,
the wrinkled space between
never and eternity.
I never wanted you to take one of those Flowers sitting on one of those boxes
or to pack up your love,
And get ready to send them off to face
I never wanted you to say goodbye,
To think that this was it
Even though most of your reality
With him was toxic.
I never wanted to see you
Sitting in any pew,
the morning of a
Not for him especially,
not for anyone.
Continue reading Breaking While Pushing Forward
they weren’t neighbors.
they couldn’t be.
they wouldn’t let them be
because they were just
Continue reading They Ain’t Our Neighbors