Why won’t you love?
Obsessions —
you’ll never know
my passion.

It’s river, ocean, submerged;
constraints never matter.
You are all I want,
be it abyss or earth.

do not run —
stay, if you choose.
Be my dark rose,
my secret desire..

Insane? Stupid? Risky?
Maybe.
Expressive? Freeing? Intimidating?
Absolutely.
Past mistakes, current life, reflective
That's my poetry.

If the right one doesn't come along
I didn't let my heart get rusty.
For my shame of the art has turned to joy
And secrets are best when they're shared.

Would that I wave my hand
and gift the blooming of
spring flowers to you.
Or pray at the altar of winter’s slow fire
to melt away this frozen heart.
But a flurry of whiteout feelings  
blind me from such a pompous display
of naive romanticism.
Yet love is blind and love blinds.
Love binds and love breaks.
If you’ve lost the trail, you are the trail.
No one said this journey would be easy.
Actually, I don’t remember anyone telling me anything about this journey.
Rubber wood for legs and pursed lips
at the sound of a secret
taunting my ensemble soul from the wings.
Space enough to relay a message.
Distance enough to lose it.
The gathering at this point is a drift of tumbleweeds and the only thing
to read on the signs is rust.
So I reach down and grab a handful of dirt,
put it in my mouth, and whistle dixie
past this graveyard of doubt.
Just in time to see the last elephant
becoming the horizon
and the sun setting through the fog of memory.
That star burns in our mother tonight,
the mystery growing in the womb
of tomorrow.
“Come,” she says,
“the dawn breaks…for you.”

this interactive abbreviation,
into the Most Mysterious complexities.
the Me, Myself of yourself, warrants,
demands slow inroads,
careful wording,
the clarity of unreasonable seasonal change,
as end of summer here hints unsubtly of
Major changes yet to come,
too soon, too early but soon
enough is the inevitability,
for you poetry hides nothing,
there is passion tempest that
releases lava flows, tossing,
skyward hot ashes of possibility,

your expertise is passionate devotion,
into the greatest of human mysteries,
of which, it is written, the lines of
its formation have etched curiosity
upon your figurative face, and this
scrip, writ, expressively and expressly,
even expertly, shall be our privy to
no one else, but we explorers...

need not say more, but your high
sense of intriguing, begs me to
offer me the opportunity to offer you,
the inviting risk, of ask me anything,
and you shall be received...welcomed

6:27am here, the sun is gentle climbing,
and the first poem of this day completed,
and instantly, released, and given solely,
to moi, to Me, by Me, for you...

I waited in silence.
Cold air whistled,
raised goosebumps on our arms.
Your eyes finally closed—
dark lashes flickered
as you exhaled.
I leaned down to your ear.
The sleeping bag rustled.
“I love you,”
even though you don’t love me.
You mumbled something back.
I didn’t hear.
I never asked what you said.
I just stared up at the tent.
You’d love me,
maybe,
if I wasn’t a girl.
And I’d tell you,
if you weren’t
the one person
I couldn’t afford to lose.

i poured half a grand
down the sink,
watched the bottles bleed
their amber and ruby
in the drain.
a sacrifice —
a promise
after a thousand lies
dressed in shame.

my world hears detox:
lemon water,
fizzy drinks.
not my veins
beating to break free,
clawing closer
to a single drop.

my husband says
i’m not what i think i am —
because i can stop.

as if stopping
wasn’t a war every night,
prayers whispered to a god
i’m yet to find.

but there’s a circle
where i can admit:
hi.
i’m an alcoholic.

in the half-light
their voices don’t press me
for whys,
or ask when i slip.
they don’t judge
when i wake again
struggling to hold
my coffee,
hands shaking.

i swore not to give it
any more room.
but i still speak of it,
and carry its shadow
to my secret crowd.

no one should be alone
when entering the fight.

Nails of the master’s reach...
No way out, no returning to innocence.
The bullied beat, the bullied beat...

Knife of the master’s heart we twist round -
Nails scrape for us... but it’s useless.
You are your own rose running, sweet one, smoker...
And they’re stale in their master’s keep.

Don’t need to keep the master beneath us...
In these vertical, breath-short windows, they are the beat-less...

And you stare straight through them.
Smash their hearts with sugar...

A life that keeps no secrets... far from the master’s weakness.

I don't normally dress this way
"I shouldn't be wearing this"
"express yourself and be fearless"
being perceived nowhere yet everywhere
not matching
raspberry and green
sometimes wishing ears instead of eyes
I don't have many secrets
but i know what I am