I am a writer, poet and performance artist. My whole life I have loved the beauty of words, whether I'm writing them into a narrative or using them to make silly voices. I am poised to publish my first book and kids series.
Dear Donald J. Trump, Have you had enough yet? Are you as surprised as I am that it’s reached this point? What was your plan? What were you prepared to do? That’s the real question here isn’t it. What are you prepared to do? What are any of us prepared to do?
All in the merry month of yesteryear. When crystals lay on the ground for the taking. I lay in my bed of icy winds. Focusing my reach for the one I love.
There is a place that exists on no map. A place frozen in a moment. Where originality blooms ready for the harvest. A place that refuses to age.
Sight leans against the tree. The light of the spirits glimmer around the forest. The sound of equines reverberate with drops.
Does it matter in which direction I look? An onslaught of noise takes aim from every lane. The chatter, the flash, the distraction.
You see it but your fingers can’t reach it. Our senses are only there to deceive. Or perhaps they lend a hand to perceive.
Crack the code of my eye and all turns to ethereal tears. Lines that stretch across seas of stone. Every which direction that is sourced out. What is the word for depth without end? The power to grow is the iris of the open hand. Who am I supposed to be? How far must I dig? My spirit animal is a winged Appalachia that sings a theremin. Unleash her with the sacred words. I would give it all away for a little bit more. The only colour that exists in my ice is neon fire. Take shape and mould it into invisibility. It stops fetching evocative and starts receiving undiscovered textures. I have been and forever shall be this moment. You can never take that away from me. All of this comes from the power of one eye. And I have two