Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Night Has a Thousand Eyes

I break branches,

in my sleep,

with soft steps,

that tried to be gentle.

I am walking,


in the woods,

warm winds upon my shoulders,

from the fire of the forest.

Burning branches,

pray for their fallen friends,

on the ground,

as the world grows smaller,

the night grows darker,

my mind goes faster.

There is a fire,

that lights up the once cold night.

I don’t remember the beginning,

but I cannot stop myself from being engulfed.

Flames decorate my dress,

trailing up and down,

like bridal lace.

I just want it to be over,

but the night will never end.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Brown Eyes, Staring Into Brown Eyes

I began writing about your eyes,

how I love the lines that live beside them,

the juxtaposition of the youthful glimmer and the aged glamour.

I was going to write about your eyes,

but I saw them watching me,

shining, sweet,

so nervous,

begging your lips to ask,

if I was bored.

I think about your eyes,

laying in your lap,

staring up into comforting cocoa,

that goes from my eyes,

to my throat,

finding words to give to you,

so that you know,

I’m never bored,

just beguiled.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Flight Was Cancelled

I told you that my heart was not an airport.

It was not a place for easy arrivals or departures,

but there you stood,

one foot inside the gate,

one foot out,

swaying from side to side,

with a cruel smile,

telling me that you would go where you pleased.

I want to ground every flight,

tear every cloud from the sky,

sleeping in their soft,

sweet relief,

until you understand,

that you already left,


and you won’t get past security again.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Girl With The Hopelessly Romantic Heart

Inside my corpse, is a gallery.

Haunted, harrowing harm,

that I inflicted on myself,

a collection of corpses,

within my corpse,

that is kept warm,

by my eternally beating, broken heart.

I don’t know that I ever existed,

sometimes I looked at myself as a museum of my muses,

how they slipped through my fingers,

how I found myself so busy,

being fascinated with them,

that I never found the time to find myself.

What am I,

except an endless cry of

“Darling, I’d do anything”?

Unrelentingly uttered to the lonely lobby I live in,

shadows of senseless goodbyes,

that wait on my walls,

staring me down,

far after all light has left.

Cut me open,

and see how little remains.