A poem began to form as I fell asleep,
I was too exhausted to write it down,
Instead it ebbed and flowed on by.
Even as unconsciousness took me,
I tried to grasp onto the stanzas,
While they withdrew inside the vault.
Continue reading “No Poem November”
You can feel the history,
It surrounds at ev’ry turn,
All starting with simple words,
Not a popular nickname,
Yet it truthfully remains,
As words cover The District,
Continue reading ““The City of Words””
Wonder if I truly need them,
Ponder what changes due to them,
Fonder each day passes without them,
Absconder each night staring at them.
Continue reading “Medicated | Living with Bipolar 2”
I know no existence without her,
She knows no other younger sister.
I was always right behind,
Endeavoring to match stride.
Continue reading “Into the Unknown with the Known”
Whenever August 1st comes around,
“It’s the beginning of Birthday Month!”
I’d play along to a certain extent,
More times than not I’d also tease,
“People only get one birthday,
No one gets an entire month!”
Continue reading “In Defense of “Birthday Month””
“Oh no, that stanza should be over there…”
Publishing poetry changes the words,
They no longer only belong to me,
Every reader has their own impression,
Clicking publish removes it from my control.
Continue reading “Poetry Doesn’t Have to be Perfect”
As my teacher explained God’s plan,
I remember these specific thoughts:
“That’s not me, I’m not in Heaven,
Why aren’t two married girls there?”
Prior to my initial homophobic trauma at 4 years old,
I had to have known I was exclusively attracted to girls,
Otherwise it would not have been severely traumatic.
So I must have known prior to it,
Even right before that moment,
But what was the actual feeling?
Continue reading “How I Knew I Was a Lesbian at 4 Years Old”
You can’t hear my words,
You can’t sing along to the tune,
You can’t listen for comfort in isolation.
You can’t watch my words,
You can’t view the imagery,
You can’t see descriptions as distraction.
Continue reading “What’s the Purpose of Poetry?”
A mother and her youngest child:
All of my firsts were all of her lasts.
I was the final offspring she nourished,
Both inside and outside of the womb.
I was the final bird to fly the nest,
Did she notice my broken wings?
Continue reading “My Mother, My Angel”