for worth it is all the best kinds of things and unthings.

for worth it is all the best kinds of things and unthings.


Rate this:


my betrayal leaves me indecisive

my betrayal leaves me indesicive
once wrapped in kisses, I let you go
if I had known the taste of his lips
never would my curiosity be for yours

I now seek the comfort of happiness,
which he is willing to give,
as you no longer carry my thoughts-
and only my fault this becomes

darling, so sorry.

the rareness of a genuine smile – RIP Steve Hartman

the rareness of a genuine smile – RIP Steve Hartman

i could always count on this smile- never once let me down. Hey Steve,   I have been waiting for your call this week, we were going to see each other for the first time in a year.  We have … Continue reading

Rate this:


e.e. cummings – and feeling

“(and feeling:that if day

has to become night

this is a beautiful way)”


-e.e. cummings


even in the silence of the wilderness; thrive

unrely on ignorant accusations,

for only they color poisonous thoughts with blissful fantasies and grand delusions

[stroked with delicate precision of ink tainted with heartaches blood]

marked unfit for those thriving nakedly under the truthful sun



deception, which can feed never on the freedom,

of those sincere in seeking all which cannot fade,

will touch you if you let it



even in the silence of the wilderness; thrive


the foreverness of pavement

i saw a snail marching across the driest pavement

staring was all i could help but do

lost, i became, in the grace with which it left behind

a trail of iridescence


my presence neither feared nor hurried his march

for he knew only, not the end of the pavement



comfort, he finds in death; none but a machine finds pleasure in the foreverness of pavement.


we call her beautiful.

i once fashioned this innocent game of connect the dots- a silly picture of my life and the way it would be. somehow, plans turned forgotten and every unplan decided to show up and make home within my life. the only flaw within my portrait stemmed from a simple misunderstanding and common misuse of one word followed by another, my life. attaching life to mine was something i never considered or questioned, but in the hardest of ways i have learned life is everything but something to call my own. we cannot plan our births and through unexplainable experience, the death i planned or suddenly decided on did not occur. accepting the idea surrounding my lack of control is still a struggle.

this is hard


and quite frankly, this fucking sucks.

but every breath we are undeservingly given will be one i try not to take for granted.

in the most beautiful of all ways, i almost missed the simple glory of her wings. somewhere, i was given breath enough to finally see. for this, nothing could replace my thankfulness.


the black velvet bow of time

i found within myself the crevices and reality

feeding swollen veins with unrequited heartache,

embracing the comfort held beneath the dull photographs [i call home]

ticking hands pounded violently between my saddened ears

branding each page of recollection with staggered syllables

tugging and prodding at the deception masked within your name


the memories became tangible and frail, i stood at a distance

visiting every instance of unpromise’s rapturous kiss

and watched as his hands united the black velvet bow

the crevices swallowed the loss of heartache’s scars

and plucked the crumbs of a poisoned lover’s foolish mess



i cannot bask beneath the rays of instances and photographs

for shadows mask the quiet wings of crevices and letting go

instead, i nestle in the arms of loneliness

finding forever in a day


“Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness, but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.” -Ernest Hemingway


march holds no diary for shadows

she stepped amongst the greenest blades

sun pounding on her youthful skin, eyes closed,

finding grace in the warmth which embraces heavy hearts


the sun brings healing to those who seek life, expelling diamond beads of anguish

gravity softly weighs down and they tumble gently off her forehead

crashing into the grassy forest below, comforting aching bones

march holds no diary for the shadow cast to those who stand tall