A poet by way of life. Words just came easy to me, though I may never write a bestseller. I just want you to feel understood. At the end of my work if we’re closer than when you started reading I’ve done my part.
In the spill of drool over my bottom lip Like a lilac canvas stretched over your bone. An animated canvas of flesh with grey eyes.
Asleep on the Couch
Ten feet maybe more from me, I could smell cigarette smoke. And their cherry’s burned like fireflies dancing in the dark. My parents sat and talked in quaint tones of secrecy.
The Artifice Heart
They want your soul And they want your heart They want to know How to tear you apart Break you down to a codex
I’m sick inside. Not a cough or a wheeze. I can’t seem to understand it. Pestering and diseased. Some days are bright.
I turned the key, opened the door and tossed the keys in the trash. Half passed the hour, so I rolled up my cuffs and started a bath.
Her hair was light and thin, Her greatest features, more than skin. But one stood out strong to me- her lips were soft as lavender leaves,
The Wind Blows
Below the snow and between the frost. Lay dead leaves decaying; lost. To feed the soil, so it may bear fruit. For these mortal coil to follow suit.
Find Me. You. Reader. You may always find me in something. In the faintest light in the darkest morning. In the single droplet on a leaf.