Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Confessions Of An Angsty Flyer

I am in the sky,

the past is a passenger with me,

as I listen to our phone call,

from last Friday,

where I lied,

letting you think that I didn’t write,

with tears in my eyes,

about you.

Blue eyes,

that I knew,

were blue,

that I love,

even when I am miles away,

that I dream of every night,

that I hope to never lose.

I am not bandaged in time,

this time.

I am flying,

feeling my heart skip,

each time I hear your voice,

knowing I would need more bandages,

if I didn’t have a piece of you,

to keep me on the path away from you.

We live in the same state of fear,

and I am panicked by your sighs.

We were fighting on Friday,

I was vague and unhelpful,

because I didn’t know how to tell you,

that I wanted to be in your arms,

but I feared being there,

in case things weren’t the same,

as they were before Friday,

and before every other day,

when I slip,

close to a cliff edge,

wondering,

distant and dreary,

wondering if this is the time that I lose you.

I am listening to our phone call,

from last Friday.

I assume you didn’t know I kept them,

but they are close to my heart,

and essential to me staying sane,

when I cannot be close to you.

You asked me what was on my mind.

I acted like I was fine,

and I know it was annoying,

and I know I’m not supposed to say I’m annoying,

but I was wondering,

yet again,

when it would be the last time,

I will be your hunnybee.

If you’ll love me,

a day,

a week,

a lifetime longer.

I was wondering,

when I would lose you,

because I can’t believe you’re mine.

Posted in Beauty, Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Tea Tree

Tea tree tells me I’m nervous,

sitting on my face,

as I step back in the game.

I was raised by feminist wolves,

in the wilds of the world,

and I feel

I should be braver,

bolder,

brighter in the face of danger,

but the tea tree,

like a concerned stranger,

seeing my frozen and unconscious stare,

into the mirror,

whispers,

“You’re worried about your skin”.

He told me,

I had pretty eyes,

my voice,

a volcano,

molten,

melancholy,

sultry syllables,

and yet,

today,

my voice shakes,

eyes teary,

tea tree,

trembling on my shaking skin,

because fear is a four letter word,

and a constant state,

when you are in love,

and need to trust someone with your heart,

and your broken out skin.

The bus driver told me,

I was beautiful,

and I shyly smiled,

hoping you’d agree.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Fire Of My Loins

I am sitting in a whirlwind,

of woeful, wistful voices,

veering closer,

as I sit with my smug smile,

and my cheap notebooks,

full of cheap cracks,

about everyone I perceive to have punished me.

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I close my windows,

just to make sure I’m alone,

waking up when both the sun and moon are sleeping,

so the city is my own,

and I do not have to share.

img_5217

Line to line,

I get by fine,

prosey,

pretentious Princess,

fucking my feelings,

and my finest work,

every night,

because they satisfy me,

in a way no man or woman ever could.

Screaming silently,

drowning in my own divine decadence,

dreaming in Spanglish,

slow motion declarations of devotion,

from a carousel of cancelled affections.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Good Morning, Starlight

Good morning, Starlight.
I am awake,
encased in your embrace.
My beauty is stained with blood,
resting on your chest,
a tapestry of scratches,
I am proud to have sewn.
It has been six hours,
since we saw our subject.
I purr your name,
an eager kitten,
sleepily,
softly padding after you,
to the car,
to see our latest adventure,
in the frightened, febrile flesh.

img_4680

Ah, yes.
He sleeps so sweetly,
his glassy eyes gaze,
burning a hole through the map of hair
and splatter stains,
that tell a story,
on the carpet of your car trunk.
Gold and red,
go so well,
underneath the morning sun,
that illuminates what we did,
when the moon came to visit.

img_4681

As the cold air eats away at us,
I lay,
playful,
in his tomb,
as you wrestle with your guilt,
and his corpse,
in low, lazy grass.
Chainsaw changing the scene,
as I dream of tonight’s adventure.
Moonlight.
Music.
Murder.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

13th November

Black and white,

basked in moonlight,

monochrome mistress,

of my ungranted wishes,

I am in the garden,

guarding my heart from your head full of hopes and dreams.

I have been seen,

by the stars,

staring at a telephone,

that projects classic scenes,

black and white,

like me,

trains and roaring lions,

and a kiss,

that could belong to us,

if I only had the nerve,

to give my heart,

to the intentions and attentions of your brain.

img_4661

I am at home with the horror of heartbreak,

breaking my own heart,

with my own hands,

keeping her locked away,

black and white,

black and blue.

She’s too sweet,

for the dusky,

beaten up streets,

she’s been buried,

under her own unrealistic expectations,

living underneath the underground,

where she was first split,

spilling all across the tracks,

until I picked her up,

patching her up,

promising that I would keep her safe,

but…

You are looming in the doorway,

drumming your fingers on the frame,

tempting me,

with a trail of torrential trailers,

of our forever love together,

and I followed it…

Goodness, gracious, Gretal,

here we go again.


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Hear My Music

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RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
In The Garden Of The Free Children
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Facebook
Patreon

Tumblr
Amazon

Podcast
Spotify

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