Month: August 2018

When I’m Dead

I wonder

If you’ll love me

When I’m dead.

I know death is ugly

In a physical sense

But I always imagined

That as your flesh

Returns to the earth

All the pretty things

All the beautiful bits

That were buried

Deep down

And scattered about…

I always thought

That surely

They leak out

Seep into the mud…

Make sweet flowers bud

You love flowers


I bet

You’ll love me

When I’m dead.





Demons fly around your skull

Whispering evil things

You’re worthless.

You don’t belong here.

You fight them valiantly

With prayers and kind thoughts

But they’re relentless

They tell you crazy lies

You know you shouldn’t believe

But they never tire

They never stop

They smell your tiniest weakness

A little crack in your exterior,

They dig in

And rot your insides

Like a cavity.

No dentist, no doctor

Can fix this

Their poison is sticky and foul

It mutates your soul

You’re on the edge

Of an infinite black hole

Careful, Love






In my daydreams

I imagine being seen.

Really seen.

The raw and vulnerable kind of seen.

I wonder if they actually exist…

Souls cut from the same cloth

Do the tiny sheared fibers reunite

And form an image that neither could see alone?

It’s lovely…

Toying with the idea in my mind

But do I want that kind of clarity?

Do I need it?

Is it deserved?

In my daydreams

I press my fingertips to yours

One by one

You smell like safety

You sound like home.

When I look into your eyes

I see me…

The way you see me

And I trust it

There’s no logic.

I see me, the way you see me

It’s foreign and familiar

More terrifying than comforting

I want to go back

But I can’t

I’ve seen my soul in you

It cannot be unseen

Is this a blessing?

I’m not so sure.




Sleep Peace

You breathe so slowly

In the low light

Of our bedroom at night.

The shadows cast over your features…

They show me a secret version of you

Your sleep is not hard or fitful

The tension and stress from your day

Has melted away

Your sleep is soft.

It’s warm.

But then comes a noise – A car horn. A dog bark.

It disturbs the calm – makes you stir

And suddenly everything seems so…


This moment

This life

I’m afraid I’ll break it

Just by being awake.

I inch my way under the covers

And closer to you

You’re such a giver.

Perhaps you could share

Just a tiny piece

Of your sleep peace

With me.




A Sweet Dream

I covered you with flowers in my mind

Lovie, I went back in time

To harvest the essence of you.

To celebrate you

To lift you up

When you needed higher ground


I kissed your cheeks

Precious one,

I played our favorite songs

And we sang them loud

‘Cause that’s the only way to do it

That’s what you always said

Loud and Proud


…Oh, and we danced

And we never stopped

We were happy

We were vibrant

We were alive


And that’s where I left us

Back in time

On an infinite loop

Covered in flowers

Feet off the ground


And dancing

And free




Rainy Avenue

Sweet face

That’s what you used to call me

When we’d walk down those tired sidewalks

Of Rainy Avenue

Cracks in the cement

Below my sandaled feet

Toe snatchers.

That’s what you called those divots and pot holes

Obstacles we playfully and confidently avoided

You had a special name for everything

Even Rainy Avenue

Your little hypocrite boulevard

We never did see it rain

On Rainy Avenue

Dark clouds, sure

Lightning shows and thunder parades

Sometimes you could even smell it in the air

… the rain.

But not a single drop ever fell

Not on us

Not on Rainy Avenue.




Poetry from the Not Poet

So I’ve been finishing off most of my poems with #poetryfromthenotpoet. I started doing it as a disclaimer because I know next to nothing about poetry. I don’t read it. I don’t know the various types. I don’t know any rules. I don’t pretend to think I write it well. I just enjoy it. I don’t want to learn the rules. I’ve had to do that… study a bit… when it comes to writing novels, and that’s a good thing. It’s made me a better writer, a better novelist. But I don’t want to be a good poet. I just know that sometimes I fill up with words and I like to pour them out. I’m not interested in learning how to spill a full glass of water in an organized fashion. Structure free feels nice sometimes, don’t you think?



Quiet One

For my deep feelers


For everyone with minds so full

And mouths sewn shut

Such a heavy weight

Such a desire to connect

Such resistance.

People misunderstand you

Antisocial, they say

Boring, they think

It’s laughable, really

Your voice is quiet

But your soul is loud

Your demeanor is soft

But your heart is fierce

You are worth patience.

My love.

You have something unique to give

So much time observing

So much time listening

Understanding leaks from your pores

Compassion flows through your veins

You get people

You learn them slowly.

You learn them deeply.

The ones who notice you

Who engage you…

What a treat for you both

What a rarity.

The ones who don’t

Whether unkind, or simply oblivious

You learn from them.

Think of it as a gift

You take a lesson on humanity from them

They take nothing from you.



P.S. Wavered on that last line so much because when people fail to notice you, when you aren’t given the time of day, when you feel invisible… that hurts and absolutely CAN take something from you. An overactive anxious mind can dwell on something like that -literally- for years, so I definitely don’t mean to diminish that. I just decided to write that the way I want it to be, and the way it ought to be. Because really, it’s something we shouldn’t give two flying shits about 😉




The days creep by

The weeks jog

The months sprint.

Time is a curious thing

A cruel thing, perhaps.

She’s ruthless


You can’t escape her

You have to live with her

But she never stops moving

She never gives you a break.

She doesn’t get tired,

but you do.

She is infinite,

but you’re not.

You’re left in this odd conundrum

Bound and controlled by this intangible thing

Lovesick by the gifts she gives you

Precious gifts

Heartbroken by what she takes from you.

You beg her…


Please be kind.

And maybe she will be

For a second, for a minute

For a month, for a year

Somehow constant, but also finicky

She’ll go on and on

But she’ll abandon you one day.

She’ll abandon everyone that you love

And somehow…

Somehow that makes you respect her more.

Funny little thing she is, Time.

She’s the master of manipulation.

So highly valued

So easily wasted

She doesn’t care either way

She moves only one direction.