Writing

My hands are catalysts of creation.

I feel, I bind, I grow, and I love with these hands of mine.

My hands weave crowns of flowers and make twine and twig wed together.

the more of me i see, the less of me i want to be. i feel empty and dreaded and dead inside;

i’m a horn atop a pig’s head;

i still remember dogwood, sitting under my porch;

my name? what is my name?

death and malice behold thee, what pains of being are inflicted upon thee, those creatures in the water and the hills continue to watch thee, the wind in thine ears whistle around thee, seven eyes on a goat’s head stare towards thee, the

Redwoods standing tall and strong.

sycamores with mushroom-like foliage.

Maple with their sap soon to be syrup.

Willows weeping in the new dawn light.

Cardinals singing on the branches of a oak tree 

I should be nice to look at

Presentable

Effortless 

It shouldn’t look 

Like I spend hours in the morning

Getting ready

Because that’s conceited

And no one likes a girl