she was dying not from disease it was much more invasive than that there is no vaccine for pain no vaccine for the insecurity he
she waited for herself at twilight under the baobab tree black skirt raised above knees red and gold painted bare feet on haunted ground spirit
there is a forgotten life inside this aging skin fragmented memories of an ancient epoch ancestral reinventions laced in lost stories our flesh matters less
i will write for you i will live and die for you i will tell our story through song and verse through poetry that is
i am unfurled unwrapped by life’s hardships, joys and mysteries. without understanding why, i have lived without a name. Unfurl
i’ve decided that i don’t want to write, not with my hands anyway. i want to think words onto paper and screens and leaves and
i am the stream… of consciousness. it is 2:38pm, monday, the In The Beginning day of the week august 14. twenty seventeen, whatever that means
i will save words for you. bottled and pickled words for you. then feed you synonyms of me, so you will always remember my taste.
I had a satchel filled with poems that I tossed into the sea. I wrote them on tiny circles and squares and rectangles woven with
I spilled ink across the blank pages of my notebook. It was then that I decided to write stories with my fingers.
The words spill from my pen, blood red, no longer wanting to be ink, but to be life. The words follow me into my dreams.
We all seek freedom in one way or another. But in the end, we live in an age where none of us know what true
i hide inside myself, in the dark corners of memory, in the light of a thousand what-could-have-beens.
The silken network of threads thin inside me; those webs that stick to everything that I am. They thin, inch by inch, but strengthen, holding
Strong, sturdy hips receive hungry thrusts. Authentic sex is not for the weak. Fainting hearts are not welcome here. Moans crescendo, vibrating leaves and rippling
Gaia I am in awe. Life. It sings to my soul. New Songs. Honor it now. Earth.
The clouds interlace fingers seeking prayer, an impassioned supplication to the un-gods. They spread across skies gathering stories of un-time, spaces inside cycles that collect
we are here to see the impossible sometimes through the night other times through the rain we must see inside self see inside the places
one day, when time leaves snow will be warm and the sun green. the ancestors will return and birth, painless. knowledge drinkable and love no
i read the wind. the words color me in shades of scented gardenias. the words take to the clouds, and write their sex song. i