I think of your brown curls intertwined in my fingers

Your big smile right before our lips meet

The way you laugh at my stupid jokes

How you sing the song out of tune on purpose

And how when you hug me you sway back forth just a little bit

I crave being around you

Listening to you tell me about the most minuscule parts of your day

The way you don’t break eye contact

And how you talk with your hands

I’m not sure how I’ll ever get you out of my mind

And maybe I won’t,

Maybe I’ll smile when something reminds me of you

Maybe I’ll sing the song out of tune by myself

Maybe I’ll cry when I’m lying in bed with no one to talk to

Maybe I’ll learn how to deal with missing you

Maybe I’ll just live with it

Staying up late
To prep for a party
I’ll probably hate.

But that’s always my problem.
Being a fucking pessimist.

I created this.
I planned it,
Down to the last minor detail.

There’s hope somewhere that I can enjoy myself,
But I think I lost it.

Since  I’ve  moved away from my hometown,
everytime I return it’s like
reliving flashes of life.
But just the darker times,
just the foreshadows,
memories link,
weaving through
my time
line. 

I transplanted chrysanthemums today.
Gerbera. Gladiolus.
Potted, they sit in our sunroom,
waiting while we decide
where to plant them for good.
Outdoors, along the stone wall,
I pulled up ropes of grapeleaf
clinging to the ivy, gripping
a nearby redbud, and tossed
those tentacles to a waste can.
It’s a little like playing God,
I think, ordaining which plants
shall live and which shall die.
If I’m lucky, this lesson
will keep me humble.  

Sleep, let me go.

Stop seducing me

into your bed.

Sleep, let me go.

I want to be awake

for my life,

imperfect as it is.

Sleep, let me go.

It’s been a nice

love affair

but I want to return

to my life.

I’m not your Persephone.

Our season is over.

Sleep, let me go.

I want to create,

not hibernate.

Sleep, let me go.

I am tired

(not for you)

of being your zombie.

Sleep, let me go.

i want my mornings

and afternoons

back.

Sleep, let me go.

Sleep, let me be.

Colors on paper, 
All run into each other, 
Making a rainbow. 

All is not lost if
you are willing to believe 
you make happiness. 

It’s Friday night
and this room reminds me of another girl
I used to be.
Twenty years ago, I was dangerous.
Tonight, I am only hungry for a melody just out of reach.
Warmed by smoke and beer,
I sneak through the crowd to the front row,
swaying to rhythm of Beam and Coke as it sloshes in rowdy glasses.
I always did have a knack for finding
the bass player with the Pagan face
who would break my heart before the sun rose the next morning.
When the music ended, we found ourselves in a dark corner,
mingling riff and sweat and sinew.
Perhaps I am still a little dangerous,
And there is no sympathy for this devil tonight
as I silence the voice murmuring disapproval in discordant tones.
In the morning, there will be time enough
for a bitter communion.
Tonight, I will sing,
as deviant fingers stroke
the underbelly of my conscience.

Sin City Lori
Slick Artist
Secret Side Piece
Sure Looking Good

Sweeter Than Honey
Buckeye Rose
Mizzen the Point
Buckeye Princess (scratched)

First Gentleman
From Behind
Double Jabbed
Miracle Nation (winner)