I don’t have any words,
only quiet between a place
where my pen pauses,
lingering over a question
about a question,
about a question,
about a question;
The cycle which spins,
flinging silence like sparks,
burning my fingers
into frozen pieces
of what used to be
my language
now silenced by a reason
still in hiding.

Does It


Does it
make it better
knowing that
smoke covers
the mountains
and makes
even the largest
or that water
can flood
a desert
to the sky
but in the end
it is just
a mirage
but my eyes,
still see.
Does it make
it better
that I still
in mountains
and clarity
and us.

I Haven’t Been

I haven’t been myself,
hiding from rain
and counting the chains
between the past
and the present untold
and the ways I could
see the future unfold,
losing friends,
beginning again,
crawling through
the lies I’ve been told,
but the ache in my hand
from trying to write
me out of their plans
reminds me I can
begin again
without losing
what made me
pick up the pen
as the ink dances
onto my skin. 

A Question on Words

I took a writing class and feared writing afterwards. I read all my words in the voice of my professor, criticizing and throwing around the word ‘cliche’. Why did it seem as if that was the deadliest word to ever be said?

I posted an honest poem and feared sharing afterwards. I got a message from my past, reminding me of all the reasons they hated me. Why did it seem my past mistakes were worth hiding my growth for?

I drink too much at a wedding and lay dizzy in bed, it was the first time around all my childhood friends. I was anxious for weeks at what they may have said.  Why was I scared that they had seen that I had grown up?

Why do I fear words so much, why do they echo as if they were a religious chant, designed for blocking out demons when in reality they create more turmoil within?

When will words lose control, and when do I take that role?



The night sky wraps around my
being, as if it was a blanket I’ve
known my entire life. The crisp
air reminds me of memories gone by, and brings hope for the memories to be. But what I love most fondly of the night is the stars, for their multitude remind me that I am nothing, while at the same time
inspiring me to be something.