Multifaceted Woman

First impressions are bullshit.
Like a full blown light of soul
is just going to appear and hit
you right in the face at first look?
Because that woman is not stupid enough
to take a half-assed chance
on a guy who is only interested
by the voice in his pants.
She wants him to see the parts
of her glowing mind
and the pieces of her fading heart
because no woman is what you see
at first look.

She is allowed to paint nails
while gossiping with her flirty friends
because hours later without fail
she is going to be elbow deep
in his shitty dish water of dirt and lies.
Maybe sometimes to fight away sleep
she writes sonnets that go miles long
but the next burning sunrise
she sings that damn awful pop song
because words are words
as long as they are hers.

She can sit and read a book
but don’t call her nerd or geek
because that novel is a look
at the things she wants from you.
When you go and upset her
she will sprout horns and spit fire
but you can always be sure
that tears will come soon enough.
You can’t put her in a box
and finding descriptions is tough
but you’ll find that you love her
because she’s all you’ve got.

Heartbreak Isn’t Just for Lovers

All those stupid love songs
playing constantly on the radio
think they have a damn monopoly
on love loss and heart ache.
I don’t need this ridiculous show
put on by an “innocent” actor
who calls himself a man
to teach me the way souls crack.
That guy isn’t the only factor
in my tearful disposition.
Who said he was the dictator
in the fascist hole of my heart?
He wasn’t the only transition
my feeble feet trampled through
in this winding road
to my love-worn heartbreak.
My parents paid for my tattoo
to celebrate the flash into adult,
a scratch of black tinged lines
lasting all through my loss.
But I can’t lay down any fault
for a child’s innocence gone
to terrifying red-brick buildings
and empty lecture halls.
Regardless of the page I’m on
that little girl is a novelty
of the tightly knit twig nest
that broke my heart all the same.
There is no damn monopoly
on the people sized whole
that sits between artery and vein.
Heartbreak isn’t just for lovers.

Rose

One would never expect thorns
on a delicate bloom,
yet they glide over the skin
with a caress of nails
and kiss of blood.
Sharp words are written by roses
into the skin of passersby.
So soft that many miss it,
blinded by the sweet scent
of honesty and faith,
a rose writes its story
under the skin
and into the heart.

Farewell to the Moon

Oh, how the stars can shine, but gone at day.
In the circle of suns they die in light.
Even as the dawn rises, the sky is grey.

The sun is cruel; the moon’s womanly ray,
stolen for the beauty that makes her bright.
Oh, how the stars can shine, but gone at day.

She curls in on herself to get away
The blackness of his anger eats her white.
Even as the dawn rises, the sky is grey.

As sleeping stars try to keep gods at bay,
the chariots will ride their blazing flight.
Oh, how the stars can shine, but gone at day.

The burning sun must have his stony way,
how stubborn people cannot change their sight.
Even as the dawn rises, the sky is grey.

Wave farewell to the moon from where you lay,
and now bid goodbye to the peaceful night.
Oh, how the stars can shine, but gone at day.
Even as the dawn rises, the sky is grey.

If Words Were Real

FREEDOM would be driving
with the windows down
and the spring air painting ribbons
through your hair like a lost Van Gogh.
It would be that Macklemore song
permeating the car
and swallowing those voices
with righteous lyrics of acceptance.

HOPE would be walking
with an ocean of possibilities ahead
and warm skin between your fingers,
tangled enough to reel you back.
It would be those eyes on you
never showing hate
and the salt water underfoot
not made of tears anymore.

BEAUTY would be dancing
with lights in your hair
and his laughter at your crooked tie
fixed with the trust in his hands.
It would be her pale eye shadow
turned to your heels
when your compliments rush out
and all around people are full of joy.

Art

She worries that the stars are nothing more than the reflection of tears on leaden eyelids. She worries that the darkness is just the color draining through trembling fingers into a black ocean of ink. 

Then she remembers who she is and the tears become diamonds around steady hands that turn ink into art

Bouncing Words

Following no specific path, my words bounce down the stream of consciousness, ricocheting off rocks and forking in many directions. They go to my pen, my mouth, and my mind. As for what they have to do, that’s for me to decide. I use them to be sarcastic and to be sincere. When I am constructing a story and when I am taking one in, words are snagged from the tornado and held close to my heart. Words don’t have to do anything. They do what we tell them to do. Isn’t that what sets humans apart from the rest of life? (That and opposable thumbs, but thumbs are less poetic.)  As a sentient being, I get to choose the words that I use to define myself and my world.

A Home Called “Between”

What is a poem
but music without sound,
lyrics that float and melodies
that cannot be found
between scores on a stand
or with wind on a wave
that is lost far from land.
But while that ocean is the notes
and the sand is the drum,
poetry is the instrument,
the guitar that you strum
while watching the water crash.

So what is a poem
but lyrics sung
to the BEAT of the world.

But what of the words
that hold up a verse
like timber and concrete
rising from lips like a curse
that can only be read
by widows and wounded souls
who have buried their dead
in soil and tears.
What is a poem
but the gravedigger’s book
forced to be voiced in stanza
and lines as one looks
to the sky as in pain and despair.

So what is a poem
but emotions we share
in each easy rhyme.

A poem is that place
between writing and song
where every author has feelings
and no lyric is wrong
because a poem has
lines but
NO boundaries.