Her Shame

Within her skin rages a quiet storm
Self’s liar caged, it’s eye
The barely contained cacophony
Bitter lungs full, unable to cry

Brittle bones her framework
Made so with icy words
Her inner voice, imprinted
Innate innocence unheard

The thief of freedom, of unrestrained smiles
Destruction lurking in wait
Her soul craving absolution
Pleading for penance to sate

Slowly consumed, from the inside out
Far-reaching ruin, to caverns of mind
But a vestige of her self remains
Revival unlikely this time

Written with Wordle Me This #3; image via Pixabay.



A million particles,

Fragmented, lost
Feeling residual

History’s hasty,
Clearly cynical

Regret’s pitfalls,
Tiresome pinnacle

Clashing and burning,
Changing, pivotal

Light and dark,
Merging lyrical

Inside out,
Recognizing, visible

Passion’s compendium,
More than, mystical

A million particles,
Connected, integral

-image credit community.cgcookie.com

She Is

She is the yes girl
The cleans up the mess girl
The yearns for your caress girl
Messy on the inside

She is the aim to please you girl
The helps you when you’re blue girl
The won’t quit till she’s through girl
Screaming on the inside

She is the peace keeping girl
The up when you’re sleeping girl
The mind always leaping girl
Exhausted on the inside

She is the wants a hug girl
The needs you like a drug girl
The soul full of love girl
Desperate on the inside

She is the wants to feel like yours girl
The heart for you pours girl
The wants to give you more girl
Trying on the inside

-image found via Tumblr, source unknown; shares as part of dVerse open link night #193


thoughts flitter
wicked twitching
momentum gaining
time’s bewitching

hands bending
ticks taunting
face’s glaring
tocks a’haunting

quickly slipping
consuming blackness
self-made funnel
symphonic madness

rabbit hole
voice’s rotten
where’d I go?
self forgotten

~photo credit nakedhonest.com


she’s the sound of thunder,
amidst the lemming rain

she’s the smell of salt,
when she sees another’s pain

she’s the taste of lemon,
when she knows you’re playin’ games

she’s the feel of wind blown hair,
when she holds your hand, unafraid

she is beauty personified,
her humble heart on display

she’s the best kind of madness,
and I get to love her everyday

Dear Friend

~photo courtesy of listcrux.com

there are these deep set, vivid green eyes staring at me, transparent, yet saturated with the depth of long roads traveled, courses diligently charted, wars fought and won, some lost, but either way, they never gave up  

their warmth tells tales of love, the kind which permeates her soul and never dies, the kind that grows and evolves, seeds selflessly sown and soil organically enriched with her bare hands 

their penetrating regard alludes to a life with sharp edges, eroded over time by love’s river whose water was made less murky as they filtered out the shoulda, coulda, woulda’s to see deeper, to finally see clearly their own reflection 

there’s something in these eyes that nothing earthly could ever extinguish; I have no doubt these eyes possess a radiance, even amidst life’s darkness moments

looking in the mirror, I see my oldest and dearest friend 

hello hope, I’m counting on you


for as long as she could remember, 
she’d felt it,
even though she wasn’t superstitious,
she couldn’t deny it, 
this unwelcome, 
yet eerily comforting presence,
signs of its existence ever-present,
but no more so than in vulnerable situations,
especially when her feelings
were so big she thought she’d crack 

sometimes, it consumed her;
when she most wanted to hide,
she’d feel it in the pulsing pressure of unfallen tears behind her eyes,
in the ball of rubber bands tangled
and bouncing in her belly,
in the twisted tightening behind her ribcage, the anvil resting on her heart,
in the shallow breathe,
because anything deeper would make her burst,
collapsing her into herself

it was most present,
and most potent, 
as this toxic voice inside her head,
one which constantly told her
she didn’t belong,
that she wasn’t enough,
that she owed something she could never quite repay,
was expected something she could never live up to,
that the world must be railing against her,
this voice loudest when the world seemed to quiet around her, 
when she desperately attempted to slow,
to try and savor it, 
her pillow’s other side never cool,
and her mind never quite at rest 

it was a blurred existence, 
a constant feeling of living in a black mist,
one she couldn’t shake no matter what she tried,
no matter how much she laughed and smiled and pleased on the outside

she’d tried to hide from it
by pretending it wasn’t there, 
by speeding through her days at 100mph, trying not to blink

and yet, here it was, still,
a backpack of lead upon her back, 
making her feel as if she were
living in a spiral, 
every action destined to repeat itself

it took 40 years of this sinister ghost chasing her,
40 years of futile running,
years upon years of spiral and repeat, 
until she finally slowed, 
until she looked with unclouded eyes,
startled when she saw her own reflection

all that time,
she’d been haunted by herself,
the weight of regret, 
a relentless stream of self-deprecation,
and even punishment,
obscuring every decision,
every interaction,
every day

afraid she’d become the epitome of everything she’d cursed, 
she’d become just that in the running,
the illusion of control causing her to fall further and further out of its grasp,
making her want to scream until there was no voice left to hear, 
her fear of vulnerability so strong,
it had begun to shroud the hope in her eyes

until today

-image found on Pinterest, source unknown