Snowflake

An honest mess-

A rain cloud affair;

Nothing more than clothes in the corner piled high on the chair,

Your mouth says a name- doesn’t seem to know mine.

Who knows if you’ll ever say what you mean?

Messy bedrooms and smoke in our lungs;

I cough up flowers-

You would too, if you were me.

Poison ivy grows wherever you touch my skin, but I've stopped treating it and now I just leave it alone.

I grew up too strong and too sensitive, but it doesn’t take more than me to turn “too” into a less shameful word;

Maybe I was never too much anything!

Maybe….

Maybe you told me one thing and I took your words as fact and my feelings as fiction.

New rule: no shrinking

Step away for a second and let her breathe:

the sweet, gasping, ever glowing eternal sunshine;

I made a new deal with the world.. I think everything is beautiful.

Undressing yourself and noticing the bones that live inside of your warm skin, a smooth spot where the skin turns slightly purple and your knuckles bleed a little,

only on your shadow does it show a bright red stain

you are everything.

You can come undone anytime you need to.

You must if you want to keep existing in this body, floating so heavy through the apocalypse-

If this is hell, we can make it through.

Your mother shows you a new t-shirt and all you can do is cry into it, use it as a tissue,

notice that she's insulted - callous and confused concerning your tears.

Notice that you are the same sometimes;

notice that you don’t like it,

Change-

This is all You have.

Spilled Ink

What if spilled ink

Was nothing more than

Dense words compacted

On your muddled page?

Not a mess to mop up,

But a message to sort out.

What sort of message

Would we find in the

Deep recesses of our pens’

Neat ink cartridges

If we simply poured

The squished, squabbled contents

On these ivory pages?

What wisdom could we gain

From the concentrated mess

Devouring our pages?

Or perhaps they don’t consume,

But give meaning

To the sheets already devoured

By the dragon of the void.

Perhaps your spilled ink

Isn’t the mess;

Your blank paper is.

First Blush

The ephemeral glow of the sun,

rising above the ocean.

Light rays reach out, like the hands

of a god offering eternal tranquility.

Gossamer glaze covering

photographs that never do justice to reality.

Shells resplendent, beaming

from their home in the sand.

Houses perched on the dunes,

spellbound by the gentle rush of water.

Seagulls, lackadaisical in manner,

witness to the scene.