My hero turned out to be a monster, it sinks further in my chest; frail leaves and empty words spill—spill
O I had bad dreams; I was wooded into the sand, lady, I am dead from you all
I found a dead deer in the road at the same time my dad told me not to look;
Do not tell me what I was to redraw that cold war face, to see a woman of what I bleed
I lost myself in the music—I often did, just like when my guitar strap fell off while in the middle of a song we were playing once. I didn’t stop a beat as I got down on my knees to keep playing.
You are a fool, you are death, where eyes decipher the plea in the thorns of a mother’s tree
inhabiting a box the pensive death-maddening burdens a heart under the moon
If I was the poet with a thorn in my side, I was; I brought another drop from the gardens on these hands and this body of stone;
if shyness shamed the oceans slaughting a bag of bones, it lain a stentorian love if shyness shamed she recalls in deathly naught the beguile of roses, adulterated by her fingers, written in verses yet morose
stalk, the shaking rain of white lies split in my head whored forgotten to snakes;
has died, beautiful dreamer
When the quiet hits the room Like a silent bomb, it arrives And in the silence- a lonely feel It comes in a pretty disguise.
you can never hear my voice, but you will see my eyes shift to the ground spending reflection—who are you, you, you are little known, and that’s okay, as a faceless shore, we do not need to be known.
Look at all the eyes
of humanity and light
cry into blood-welling
forgotten in unbridled free verse;
arrayed in language
unnoticed in its death,
as the leaves survive
the siege of winter