Hell hath no Fury like a Woman scorned.
Eldest Daughter. Sister. Sage.
Wise beyond
Her mortal years.
Devotee of Righteous anger.
High Priestess of Feminine Rage.
sworn to Serve
Her silenced Sisters

Note: This poem is dedicated to anyone reading this who just starting to explore an interest in poetry. Having begun writing less than a year ago, it’s had an incredible impact on my life – Please go ahead and call yourself a “poet”, if you’re not already, and trust that the universe is leading you in the right direction <3. This is a reflection on how low, abandoned, and worthless one can feel, and how just one step in the right direction can change it all. 

ten years from now
when some one small
or hurting—
or angry—
or lost—
comes to me and asks

how’d you do it?

I know what my answer will be:
I started living
I started letting myself feel
anger and injustice—
love and support—
depression and melancholy—

all of it.

I began dotting my i’s with little hearts
let the hair on my legs, my armpits, grow soft
just because I could

brought plants into my spaces
let myself breathe in fresher air
new wind in my sails I arrive
when I need to

no more rushing

I allowed the ideas to sink in
that it might be okay, to not be okay
that sometimes good enough,
is good enough
that there’s nothing wrong
with being angry
when it is a human right
to feel a full spectrum of emotions
instead of intellectualizing every minute detail
of every spiraling thought

I opened my eyes
I closed my mouth
I refreshed the page
I closed the forgotten tabs that still tugged at the back of my brain

I stopped saying
there’s still so much I haven’t done
and instead
that there’s still so much I get to do.

and that shift in perspective is what I hope to offer.

when someone asks how I did it, I’ll tell them–

I just started.

            “Therefore I tell you, every sin and blasphemy will be forgiven
              people, but the blasphemy against the Spirit will not be
                            forgiven.”                                                                                   
                                                                                                  — Matt. 12:31

my words are frightened creatures
trembling in a cave of flesh, and i
cannot seem to lure them into
the green and open fields

          beyond 

the Son of Man warns us
the only unforgivable trespass:
to see him and harden our hearts
against who he is.

there is a promise
         in the rebuke:
He is and will remain,
here and himself.

The irony:  not even that
act is unforgivable, his choice.

as long as he remains (forever)
we can come back (until we cannot)

          or until we do not.

purgatory
is the place
we plant
our feet

and hell is
what we choose
to live.

You aren’t good enough, you know?

I’d like to think there’s at least—

What are you talking about? So many people—

I don’t need you to defend me.

Can’t defend against fact.

Your words are uninspired, meaningless.

It feels that way sometimes.

What does He know about meaning?

You can create feelings, images,

landscapes from thought!

He creates naught

but shite and worthless musings

the ravings of a dead man.

I think, maybe, he has a point…

No. Don’t you understand? That’s what he wants.

What could you hope to know about that?

Don’t compare yourself to the greats and savants.

He’s a loser, buddy, strikes out every at bat.

No. He’s not. Don’t listen! Don’t get caught

He’s not up to the task. He has no peak, only flat.

up in his lies and his shame. You sought

He sought running, off a building—ha—splat!

expression and emotion, deeper thoughts—

His thoughts? Just shallow, shitty; a pile of scat.

shut up…

Shut up.

STOP.

I can’t hear myself think

or breathe.

I’ve no space to feel,

to be me.

I don’t know what is real.

Please, set me free.

Begone and be quiet

leave me, cease.

Go. Now.

LEAVE.

Like a moth to a candle burning I’ve always been drawn to learning,

There’s more things in this world than can be known,

All the knowledge that we gain is kept safely in our brain,

Safely stored away but on loan. 

In a sudden flight of fancy it seems my mind can see,

Alexandrian scribes bent over scrolls,

Scribbling down the world’s knowledge in their Mouseion college,

It must have pleased them right down to their soles.

Two thousand years since the burning of that great warehouse of learning,

We like to think we now know all there is to know,

Computers far and wide present our collection of pride,

We marvel at the facts which they show.

Our aspirations are now so high, we kneel before A.I.

And tell ourselves we’ll no longer have to think,

While machines will do it for us we join in a great Hallelujah Chorus,

No matter it could all end in a blink.

Perhaps if men were more discerning and gave themselves to learning,

This would be paradise and peace would reign upon the earth,

We’d pursue culture and the arts and love would swell our hearts,

Creativity would be the standard currency of worth.

Exceptionally bright fluorescent lights
and the malleable paper of an office
brewed cup of tea in my hands,
I realize none of us were meant to be
like this. While I am stuck inside, 
something akin to Autumn—a warm,
sticky promise of unending change
and the soft decay of time inerrant—
emerges and rears to beating heart
and a breath let loose.
Inside the office the air is sharp
enough to make our old folks shiver,
but outside, the dried and candied
husks of cicada still cling
to the rotting wood of Kentucky’s
backyard. In the spokes of every
porch railing, webs are silking,
dotting haunts yet to be.
And in the cold basement,
silverfish slither through
the cracks, mocking modern
infrastructure, making their home
in the dampness of a shower floor
or the crust of old carpet put there
by landlords of yesteryear. Even outside,
a lonely cricket sings his Geiger
counter songs, tapping his way
to reproduction, filling the world
with more song to be silenced
as the quiet clicking of plastic
keyboard tries and fails
to keep tempo.

Roll out the bed
Feet on the floor
Head to the grindstone
Hands on those knots

                I’m watching this early onset
                Beauty and her toddler son
                And her biker husband
                And her laser eyed mom
                post content on her demise

Third gear, pump and burn
standing jogs, up and up
a hill I made for myself, leg drive, B12
    My spin instructor yells 
    The hearst is undefeated, 
           but not today. 

                She’s laughing about losing
                words, no antibiotics, no tubes
                just comfort, just lip gloss
                Today I lost it, she said, laughing

Churning checkbook
Balancing beam
Steady and go over the top 
Hustling all the way 

                She looks for answers (from God?)
                How someone so young, so useful,
                so needed, someone still moving 
                be caught like this and brought down

By the same gravity
    that holds me here
    cussing at the lawn,
    pulling the cans in
    from the curb, crazed

Recent medical studies of dying patients report brain activity persists in bursts from minutes to hours after human hearts have stopped beating. Regions of the brain where these bursts occur suggest remembering to be the last thing we do.

the space between death
and the conclusion of life
what is to be seen

morning hubbub
cup of joe conversate and embryos
sit in caverns your eyes bore through

brunchcapades
no seatbelt nor switch signaling
first in line for nowhere in particular

early dinner
eyes settle on-screen apps instead of intimacy
and you never asked me if you were worth it to leave