Poetic Metamorphosis 

I've reached the ready in my poetically inclined life. At first, it was vague. There was an understanding that I'd experienced something with someone at sometime but what and when and who were far out of reach. It was an anbodies poem. I was the author but not technically the narrator. In my first book at least. But now I've finished the second. There's something different about it. I've come to terms with owning the hurt. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m a walking, breathing broken heart. And god doesn’t it hurt? Like hell. In Misfit Tales I own it. Every single excruciating inch of it. It’s mine and I want the world to know it. I want you to know it. I started writing as a way to purge everything I didn’t want. I used the words to mask the pain. I pretended that if I made it vague, nondescript, it wasn’t mine. It wasn’t about me. It was a lie. Every damn sentence. Because it’s all about me and you and us. It’s about the misfits and the outcasts and paria…

A Brief, Possibly Real Story 

I like to think you knew what you signed up for when you borrowed my pen. You knew that ink was the same as blood to me and I spilled it often. You were aware that optimism wasn't in my nature and I wasn't fond of shining brightly. Just constantly. I conserved the coil. No use wasting it on short bursts of illumination. I made sure you knew that I was a terrible introvert. I wanted to talk, constantly. I had so much to say about nothing in particular and about everything that mattered. But I didn't. Because I was a terrible extrovert. You were made aware that I wasn't particularly good at anything. Socializing. Not socializing. Speaking. Silence. The happy medium. Whatever the hell that was. I told you. Plainly. I suppose that was one thing I was good at: brutal honesty where my faults were concerned. You smiled then. Laughed in my face. Not rudely but with great disbelief. Because here I was, talking to you, and having hope (optimism if you will) that you'd take m…

Heaven (Bookstores) 

Sometimes inspiration is scarce. Sometimes the worlds so damn chaotic I can hardly think let alone write. But then I enter a bookstore and everything quiets. I could spend hours here, in this space between spaces. I could find inspiration here, if open to it. I could think here. In fact I'm forced to. And here's what's on my mind: poetry. I haven't written enough of it. Or at least I hadn't when this picture was taken, edited and posted on Instagram like some trophy. Look! A book with butterflies. A book with ideas escaping it in front of my eyes. I grabbed a few. Just a few but it worked. I think. You tell me. 
"There are things I wish you'd tell me. Like how uninviting my backside must be when I turn to give you better access. You sleep then. Soundlessly. I wish you'd tell me how desperate my "I love you's" must sound to your certain ears. They mean more then three simple words. They are a question, a plea, a bargain. A contract signed, …

Self Love 

In a generation full of judgement, I aspire to love myself. What do I see when I look at this picture? Tiny eyes and a nose I'm not quite sure if I like or not. I see the remains of dead pimples and a face unsure of what to do with itself. But that's just my training. It's this knee jerk reaction inside. Tearing myself down is what society taught me. I don't fit the mold and so I do not fit. Beauty is square and I'm not even a shape. I'm a voluminous mass of thoughts. I am emotions made animate and bravery photographered. Here is me embracing flaws that aren't necessarily flaws. Here is me standing in front of a camera and saying "go ahead, I love me." And now, this is me sharing that with all of you. Try it out for yourself. It's freeing. I promise. Take a picture, recognize what you're trained to criticize and throw it out the window. You are beautiful as is.

Here's the Thing

I am the by the books type of girl. Model daughter. Model student. Model freakin employee. I even do the whole tortured artist thing by the goddamn book. Until I didn't. Until my wires crossed and everything went to shit. Because I initiated change I didn't want. I got scared, brave and stupid all at the same time. I fell in love. No, that's wrong, I dove headfirst. I became the romantic I made sarcastic comments about. I packed my bags, labeled my boxes and said hello to Colorado. Well, almost. I've got a week to change a mind that won't have any changing. It's decided it did enough of that. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared. I'm absolutely, completely, without a doubt terrified this is the stupidest thing I will ever do. I'm so afraid that this heart I try so damn hard to deny I have will end up broken beyond repair. But I'm doing it anyway. Here's the thing: stagnancy is just as terrifying. Living a life out of fear has got t…

Goodbyes Are Sad 

"It's time to say goodbye, but I think goodbyes are sad and I'd much rather say hello. Hello to a new adventure." -Ernie HarwellAs the clock ticks down to the day I leave the only home I've ever known, I find myself hiding from all emotions. If I let one in, then everything comes in. And so much of it is sad. Goodbyes are sad and terribly inconvient. But new adventures are not. If I can remember that, if I can live these days by this quote then I think I'll be okay. I'll be brave enough to fly.

Lonely Alone 

"Oddly enough, more often than not, alone was all that made sense. In the way empty made you full. Filling spaces that didn't exist for other such nonsense like happiness." It seems forever ago that I wrote this here poem. It came to me the way all poems do. Slowly at first and then a tidal wave of emotions. Alone was my home. Emphasis on was. It's not anymore. Not really. And I'm not quite sure what to do with that. How to handle it. I find it rather annoying. A creature of habit, I shun change even if I provoke it.