Breathe

mug of tea, you sit there so silently
you make it look easy
to simply be

maple tree, bending in the breeze
you seem so happy
you seem so free

I’m not looking for much – just a little relief,
just a hunger for touch.

And a place I can breathe,
a place I can be happy.

river wide, taking life in your stride
you have nowhere to hide
where do you go to cry?

winter ice, preserving the night
you seem so calm inside
where do your traumas lie?

I’m not looking for much – just a little relief,
just a hunger for touch.

And a place I can breathe,
a place I can be happy.

I’m not looking for much – just a little relief,
just a hunger for touch.

And, as I stand by this dream,
I finally can be free.

Pretty

A set of haikus


fuck pretty, fuck that
aesthetic jail cell, fuck that
Polaroid Pretty


fuck pretty, fuck that
forced Magazine smile, fuck that
Commercial Pretty


fuck pretty, fuck that
advertised face cream, fuck that
Expensive Pretty

fuck pretty, fuck that
scrutinized body, fuck that
Controlling Pretty

fuck pretty, fuck that
mutilated hair, fuck that
White-Centric Pretty

fuck pretty, fuck that
endless worrying, fuck that
Insecure Pretty


fuck pretty, fuck that
manufactured worth, fuck that
Man’s Choice Pretty


fuck pretty. We’re done
We’re done downplaying our hurt.
We’re done being small.


We need our bodies.
We need our love more than you.
We deserve our strength.

Fuck Pretty. We are
not here for your enjoyment.
We are for our joy.

On Rage

quiet rage
beginning to announce
her speechless marriage

sweeping through, screaming
their Names

dancing then, after
only after
only after

Socks

are the only thing keeping

me from falling apart

!

One small barrier

(between me and the world)

:

The one thing

that separates me from the dream.

My

dreams were preferable

to this

.

Much softer and filled with

more desire.

May

there is a time to rest

among the soft flowers

[they exist

whether you are there

or not]

Whitman’s Hands

for Chris

There’s something about you that makes my heart hum
With what Whitman calls “life”
What Cummings calls puddle-wonder
and becoming “who you really are”

Something about your eyes, playing stars in your head
Or maybe your hands, rough and large
But it isn’t any Thing at all, really
My heart hums with you
Even if I try to ignore the hum, push it out
I can’t pass this stranger by, this knowing

This love
That does not burn, but rather builds up
That does not consume, but rather grows slow

Curls into the sun like peas, smells sweet like tomatoes
The poets were right: noticing is love
Anguish is love too, but much less full of hum

I am to see to it that I do not lose you.