LOOK AT MY BLOOD FLOWERS, BECAUSE I WRITE WITH A SERENE SHARP BLADE THAT SOOTHES. AS MUCH AS CUTS INTO THE DEEPEST PARTS OF MY SOUL.

We all have our safe places, where none are invited. They are lonely rooms full of the musk of memory. Sanctuary rather than adventure.

poems open doors;that don’t even exist.

All these mirrorscarnival distortionsof selves we never were.

There is a light within our soul that burns brighter than the sun. And we ignore it.

Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. Most of my beholders are blind.

I want to douse myself in silver words and whisper away all rue.

The stars are but tears shed by a miriad of unrequited dreams; each sparks with fire and guides its light homeward when a dream is revealed

Thoughts as warm as a silky summer rain, flowing over the edge of my soul’s gentle.not tides returning them along the shoreline to laughing gulls.

Even dead fallen leaves go a long way with the wind before getting crushed.

Those masks we wear not to shield others; but ourselves from who we are.

After a breath and before another, there’s plenty of time to rest.