Feb 27


I have learned to interpret silence. My mind splutters, on the verge of an idea, and once again disappears into the abyss. An ocean cannot freeze. Sometimes I wish it would. 

Enthralled by mysteries, the intoxicating paradox of my mind brings extreme hilarity. 

Do I strive to become another Daphne, or let this perplexity lead?  

I live in stacks of books, with no more room on the painted bookshelf. White polished furniture built my habitat. My poems are full of obscure imagery. I seem to be a nomad with a single destination.

Iceland engulfs my eyes. Mountain arch brows trace my unspoken thoughts. My wind-nipped face slowly softens as the day disappears. 
Feb 27

Silent Panic

shallow breaths are ignored for sometime now. fingers, clenched up, scratching at others. no. 
control, don’t let your emotion subdue you. right now is when your brain should not control your body.
muffled curses are silently screamed. ink punctures your mental diary. it overflows.
subconscious sirens and hammering heartbeats. sweat forms. right now is when your brain does not control your body. 
Feb 15

~mental diary~

I wish I kept a diary. 
For concealing everything
That lies beyond my outer shell
Brings no satisfaction. 

If I were to keep a diary, 
I would write my battling breaths
And rattling years.

But if I were to keep a diary,
Would someone walk upon the sodden pages,
And know?
Would my tsunami of feelings
Be found?

Feb 14
poem 0 comments challenge: Love

Love Haiku

Jan 22

Oh, I love a good book!

I love a good book.

It could be a book where the sleek, smooth surface, hides 
the mossy hardcover book. 
and binding the cream pages, that swallowed me 
in it's thrilling story.
I don't know if anyone has heard of it. I am proud to reccomend it. 
Bought new, published not long ago. 
My sleek, hardcover book. 

It could also be a  classic discovered at my grandma's house. 
A tired paperback, one that I could fit in my pocket. 
Its faded yellow pages
used to be white.
entertaining those before me. 
It's a classic, I am proud to said to have read it. 
My classic, old book. 
Jan 19

The Gardener

You walk barefoot, on the clipped grass, 
The hedges loom over us
harboring me from the thundering sky.
An imprint on the ground, a shadow where the flowers lie.
And there they are.
For, I know how they work as the seasons go by.  

A gardener, one who cuts weeds away.
They carve their sculptures in 
Mere plants.
A gardener is an artist. They simply guide the trees.
and there is the masterpiece.
A gardener is free, 
Entangled in their work.
Imagine living in plants, vines wrapping you up.
It’s summer.
A gardener is strong.
They watch as the seasons change.
Delicately destroying the bed of flowers
that the sun used to lie in. 
The sun is hidden.
A gardener is a storyteller.
Intertwining pages of leaves,
With the gardener’s touch. 
The hedges breathe 
with the gardeners tools.
And finally, the gardener can


The Grandfather Beech Tree

It's arms encircle me. The same arms that my mother, my uncle, my aunt; the same arms that embraced them. They climbed the tree, knew it's roots, traced the leaves, years before me. Now, I hide behind it's frail limbs, duck into the burrow that it created. The Grandfather Beech tree.  That was the name it had. The tree let it's roots run wild, imprinting into the ground, and resurfacing and creating another tree, only feet away.  Biking to the tree, and playing house, hide and seek, or maybe we were pirates in search of loot. The branchs hung and swirled around the blocked Wishing well, overgrown by vines. It had became forgotten. The tree remembered it. 
Dec 31

Generated Story Becomes a story

The smell of red wine lingered around the dark halls of Shafling Manor. Next to the fire, stood my boss. To be specific, bosses. But there was only one head of the household in everyone's mind. She was a dark, pointed woman with slick hair and rosy cheeks. Her sharp features and tall statue were alluminated against the fire. Maggie Stafling. Her husband, was a stout man with red curls and freckles everywhere but his face. His contribution to the marriage was unknown. The only thing that made me remotely realize he was a resident of Stafling Manor was that his name was on the mail box. Ross Milner of Stafling Manor. I returned to the servant  quarters and sighed at my long day. An old aqquaintance had popped back into my life at the supermarket, leaving me stunned in the bread aisle. 

Generated Story

Dec 31


Eternal ties, spun by gold.
Generations change how our story’s told.
Wedding vows and decorations
Bassinets and true patience.
There are so many of you

Surnames and blood don’t connect us all,
But all our memories pile tall.
Smiling, as you stroke my chin,
I am proud to call you kin.
I love you, I love you

I can’t remember a time or year,
Where any of you were never here
If I bow my head and look away,
I would be regretting it the next day.
Forever and ever, we all say 
Never leaving, even past the grave.
Dried flowers, and photo frames,
Your love tattooed across my veins.
I am proud to call you kin.