The Precipice 

Life’s about living on the edge (pun totally intended), being afraid of the drop, the void, the systematic suppression of creativity and saying fuck it to all of that. 9-5s, meal planning, training, adulting. All necessary. All killers of creativity. Set aside an hour a day or whatever’s available to you and paint, sculpt, knit, garden, write. Anything and everything that makes it feel wild and free and wholly you. We have an tendency to lose ourselves to the monotony of life. We were told weird was well weird and while that didn’t make sense we listened to the tone of their voice and felt disgust. They didn’t like weird. They didn’t like us and so we forced ourselves into an amazon box. Packaged ourselves up nicely and lived by their rules. Well not anymore. Today, right now, I’m telling you to burst forth from that cardboard coffin. Litter the floor with your packing peanuts and be free. Become acquainted with tot weird once more. Because it’s weird and I say that with total awe.

Silently Disgusted 

“I am in a cage of my own making. I held my silence the way I do my disgust and watched them shut the doors on my dreams. Simple dreams of a world where I can wear no bra, because truly I do not need the support, and have no fear of harassment. It’s a silly dream really because all I wish for are nights where I don’t grip my keys like they are a lifeline as I make a beeline for my car in a deserted parking lot. I dream that the measure of my worth will not stem from the erotic dreams my body might create and instead be based on the sensuality of my intellect. All I want is a world where I have a voice to voice my disgust about a cage they said was for my own safety.” I’m disgusted with the patriarchy. I’m disgusted with my fear. I’m disgusted with my silence. And so I break it. Speak however you need to. Painting or poetry. Screaming or sculpture. Just speak.

Twinkle Twinkle 

“THINGS WE DON’T TALK ABOUT”There’s days I can feel it coming. It’s a shiver down my spine, goosebumps on my arms. It’s the knowledge that I’m being watched. Stalked. Tracked. And I think because I know it’s coming, I know that it’s waiting for that moment of sudden, expected vulnerability, that I am safe. But it is more patient than I. More aware that the time will come. It always does. Then there’s days I don’t feel anything at all. There are no shivers, no pleasures, no pains. It hits me like a train and then nothing. Unspeakable pain then stars, blackness, blankness, a void I know I’m supposed to fill. But can’t. Because it’s come. It always does. Then there’s days like today. It’s eleven o’clock and I can’t drag my sorry ass out of bed. I don’t want to. It seems painfully pointless. The lights too bright. Shut the blinds. Lie back down. Don’t write. Don’t read. Don’t reach out. It’s here. It always is.

Going Home 

I’ve been AWOL lately. I’ve been a bad poet and an even worse writer. Not because the product is crap but because there is no product. I haven’t burned the midnight oil in months. I haven’t sat in front of the laptop or notebook or a napkin in longer than I care to admit. I’ve starved my Wild Woman because of happiness. Now I know that sounds strange. So strange in fact that I didn’t recognize what the “issue” was until I was more than halfway through Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ masterpiece, “Woman Who Run With Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype”. I’m happy. I’m changing. And it’s overwhelming. No matter the positive implications it’s effecting my craft negatively. I’ve been too long gone from my home. My soul home. My inner wolf. I’ve starved the beast and now it demands retribution. And this is it. This right here. Me writing and telling the world (what little part of the world cares) that I’m going home. Please don’t take that too literal. I’m not boarding a plane, t…

Misfit Tales 

We went live on Amazon this morning and my pride hasn’t faltered once. Every poem in this collection is more real than all the ones in the collection before. And dammit they were real, but my poems, my collections, my books they are growing with me.

Lollipop Smiles 

I’m feeling this a lot lately. Hence the lack of posts. I’m in my head and in my heart and not in it with anybody. I can’t seem to think straight or feel straight or talk straight. It’s all a jumbled mess and I miss home. And I’m not happy and so I’m being honest. My smile is brittle. It is candy. Wasting away for our satisfaction. “I look in the mirror and I do not know myself. It seems I haven’t for awhile now. If I ever did. I smile. It seems brittle, like a dying lollipop between eager teeth. There are no crows feet. No tiny little lines that say “this is real, I am happy”. Because I don’t think I am. But I can’t be sure. My mask, mass produced, has been on too long for me to notice the nuances of my emotions. I can hardly tell a grimace from a grin anymore.”

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…