Desperate words

Words so desperate 

to flow into 

the ocean of a poem. 

Confusion building up 

in the faces of the voices 

that reside within a crowded brain. 

Brain already swollen 


the pressure it contains.


Son (2)


Your mother needs you right now.

She needs to stroke your hair,

Hold your face,

Wraps you within her embrace,

Hear you call her name,

See you smile and act all silly.

She just needs you, son.

She needs you so she can love again.

She needs to feel that kind of affection

She wants to understand love, son.

Unconditional kind of love.

She needs to feel warm again.

She needs to feel.

Please. Son. 

Find your mother.

She is waiting for your call.


With nothing in his heart
And nothing in his head
He built his temple out of souls
Only some of them were dead
With nothing in his sermon
And no feeling in his voice
He filled his church with vermin
And people that had no choice
With nothing in his books
And nothing in his suggestions
People stopped asking
And he would just forgive them
With nothing in his heart
And nothing in his head
He built his temple out of souls
Only some of them were dead

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Musings of an Imperfect Heart

She took it in, the notion of time, the great healer of all that holds her down, a constant state of feeling the weight of a posthumous joke, only she is still breathing and the laughter is lost on her.

She parts the drapes to feel the sun, in spite of the chill, she opens the window, draws a deep breath, allows the sound of early morning birds to fill her ears. She remembers his voice, bringing in the dawn, wrapping her up before disappearing,

she believed he wanted to stay…but he didn’t.

She finds it hard to remember what he sounds like, his voice now whispers in another ear, ushering in the light, not leaving in the dark the way he did with her. Maybe she doesn’t know how to let light in, preferring the comfort in the heaviness of midnight’s cloak, shielding her from the vulnerability love…

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Swift Response


walk in,


draw no desire to be seen,


imminent objectivity,

completely out of your control.

Perhaps –


will there ever be a time,

when it can be just that reality …


I walked outside today,

wearing my favorite outfit,

because it feels so good on my skin,

because when I turn the garments flow with me,

because, when I sit I am entirely draped …


yet around me I can feel the eyes,

watching me sway, move, turn to exist,

and I am alone in their eyes.


I wonder if is that easy,

to understand her angst toward Man,

to realize that our physical presence

is entirely scrutinized

in the beholder’s – other’s – eyes.

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