Love is a thorny rose
Unfolding beauty
Caught in prose
With pinprick words
I suppose
Or else I’ve heard it said
For those that grasp without repose
To tear at hearts
Til mourning grows
With bloodstained hands
So it shows
The pain of those bereft.
Graduation
We’re used to paper changing worlds
The power of ink bound like souls
To uplift or oppress,
To entangle or release.
Hours sink into a daze
Across each page like whispers
Of a long forgotten chorus:
Countless nights
Of recitation and revision
In a past we never knew.
Until that day,
With dawn breaking,
You slipped past dreaming
Past drifting between stars
And found yourself
A little closer
To who you’ve always wanted to be.
One page…
One page composed of hundreds gone
Composed of thousands more to come
One page…
And you’ve turned to a new chapter.
So, keep reading…
Keep writing…
And most of all,
Keep believing.
You have a library in your heart;
It’s time the whole world knew.
Listening For An Echo
We shout into the void–
With scribbles, songs, and pleas–
To hear a voice come back
As all around us flees.
We look into the west
And strain to find a home,
Where all the rivers meet
And no longer need to roam.
We feel with outstretched hands
And fingers pained and broken,
To feel just one reply
Reverb on lips when spoken.
We ache for one desire
To fill our chest, our lungs, with air and fire.
Neutral expression
Will you ever be calming
Or always lightning,
A crash in-waiting,
A moment’s hesitation
Before the world ends?
Will I stop flinching
At a parting of the lips,
The taste of silence,
Where I hear nothing,
But feel each word that could be
As goosebumps within?
Neutral expression,
Without an affirming smile
How can I trust you
When all you have been
Is a pause between the storms,
Safe harbor for none?
Charity Thinketh No Evil
“Charity thinketh no evil”
Repeats and repeats and repeats
No purer love than to trust
And, with arms clasped tight,
Fall without hesitation.
To leap off good intentions
And catch hold of another,
Wrist to wrist,
And wrest away the rest,
To pry from fingers stress
While gasping for relief.
Of such have fragile whispers no part,
Nor dust upon a misplaced photo,
Nor scratches on discarded albums
That skip each pleasant beat
All ashes, all ashes, and embers sweet.
My heart told me you were good,
Even as my mind waged war
And shrapnel pierced chunks
Were scattered across my chest.
My heart told me to trust,
Even as phantoms burrowed into sleep
And held my head tightly
As I struggled for breath.
My heart told me to wait,
Even as fires caressed my tongue
And burned my ears
With the destruction of hesitation.
My heart told me to silence them,
The voices that said you were lying
Lying in wait to catch me
And cut me down.
My heart told me to listen,
But fear overtook me
And now I see she was right…
My very own Desdemona…
How can I forgive myself?
Between my fingers
Space is aching for filling
With more than mere words
i love like a dam breaking
filling every crevice,
drowning
whatever’s left of last year’s poison
except,
between the breaths
shots ring out
and arms are left flailing,
unwilling or unable to swim,
i never can tell.
Women Are People
Women are people,
Not rewards for good behavior.
Women are people,
Not blank walls to project art onto.
Women are people,
Not pockets to fill with leftover lint
And lives you wish you’d spent
With more than halfhearted sentiment.
Women are people,
Not journals to fill with ideas.
Women are people,
Not dreams to wake up from.
Women are people,
Not books to read and discard
At the end of a long day.
Women are people,
Not streets to walk through
On your way to self-discovery.
Women are people,
Not an outlet for your rage and inadequacy.
Women are people,
Not a frame of reference for a better life.
Women are people,
Not an anchor in this storm you’ve created.
Women are people,
Not a mirror for you to style yourself in
And see your ego reflected back
Smiling unceasingly with hands together in praise.
Women are people…
Why is this so hard to grasp?
Do not tiptoe around my heart;
It has seen far too many wars
To give merit to too soft a touch.
It hears sweetness
And flinches-
For so often are knives wrapped in velvet.
Sometimes tasting steel
As it slides between my ribs
Feels more familiar than my name.
And the scent of vanilla
Sours overnight…
Moonlit Poetry 