Wilted

They stripped my thorns,
and cut my stems,
leaving me
nothing more
than wilted rose petals.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

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Sides

We know how to count shapes,
sides of a triangle, a square,
but how many sides to a person?
Count their personalities,
their makes and models,
mental instabilities.
Count the emotion in their eyes,
and calculate the rates of change;
How many patterns in their smiles?


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Permission Zero

I picked up a pencil the other day,
drew a picture of my mother,
and listened to the way she’d say,
“what happened to the papers
on which you used to paint?”
I closed my eyes and listened
to the way her voice had glistened
when I cried the pages into pain
and forgot the feeling of permission
to create when called insane.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Bridge

When they told me about the bridge,
I wanted to be like everyone else;
I wanted to question your choice,
your final act, and why the jump
was curtains drawn before dawn. 

When they told me about the bridge,
I did not spill to them your secrets. 

I did not tell them about the stars that never dimmed;
the city lights that showed their promise to you;
the glow that would never fade like yours. 

I did not tell them about the reassurance in the wind;
the whispered secrets
the breeze cried into your ears,
telling you all the things that they would not.

When they told me about the bridge,
I did not tell them about the algae,
and how it promised a life,
in places otherwise deemed unlikely.

I did not tell them about the waves;
the way they danced
when the rest of the world froze at the thought
of being pushed and pulled by the unseen. 

And when they told me about the bridge,
I did not spill to them your secrets;
I did not tell them the truth;
that the best place to leave the storm
was by the beauty that calmed it.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Imaginary Friends

Am I the only one that plays with my monsters,
like I’m back in elementary,
a small child playing pretend with dresses and barbie dolls,
painting the beauty in these smiles?
Am I the only one that moved the beasts
from under the bed
and gave them a home to rest in my mind
when the dust bunnies got too violent?
Am I the only one that promised the demons
to forever believe
you don’t always grow out of imaginary friends?


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!