Whenever Ink is Needed

Simply put it this way:

I am
for you 

my soul’s favorite motion

is when you
make it move

and all else
slows down in grace.


Thirty times I’ve seen
the sunlight pass through you
when the morning breaks
and another thirty
to see the darkness fall
underneath your starlit eyes.

I must be mad to keep count
and let beauty mash
with sanity like 
barley dancing in summer gold.

I do not apologize, 
when it can not be helped
to be caught in between 
the person I love and hate 
the most; myself wearing
a different face 
to match your own set
of expressions.  


Spirit could light a fire
as courage howls within myself,
I own a red moon
pulling in the tide
towards what I could not reach

shape takes less
of a broken form—

into the halves 
who walk the silver line
taken possession over 
the coast

I call to you and only
to you,

  my solace after the
cold drought.


I asked emptiness 
how to fill
this void left 
in her

and this blank
lies its answer,

cup by cup
I pour my love
passing through
a river that does
not lead out to the ocean. 


Dear Universe,
You have to try harder 
next time to implode
yourself upon me
and etch your existence
over mine—

I have breathed enough
of your stars to light my lungs
on fire and my heart
is more or less, a visual 
representation of the moon;
crater painted with
collisions from your debris.

Continue to shape me as I am,
when resilience and radiance
are my zodiacs written 
across your surface,
evidence in play that
I am still here—
waiting patiently for your next move. 




Often, things
puncture our skin
and here we breathe in
miracles through
open wounds.

What a lovely
to heal. 

Harden your ribs though breathe steady all the same.

Dad’s new toy. Oh am gonna have fun with this too. So many things to print.

Dad’s new toy. Oh am gonna have fun with this too. So many things to print.


Our hearts crumple into
a rose and later wilts
away to a dried up state.

Who is at fault when we
forget to check
our pulse being pricked
by thorns?

I am certain of the sleepless
nights when my thoughts
watched over you sleep,

it is simply a matter 
you can’t forget 
when you repeat a process
a thousand times
before the good dream starts.

Gardeners of fate 
we are not— sowing seeds
that should bind us 
with a shell of vines
when they grow 

though we are magnets
to fire and sharp blades,
burning and trimming
down the excess
and some seasons,
a little more beyond
what is enough.

When flowers begin
to pick themselves
and bathe underneath
the sun, we’ll turn out
just fine 

and maybe become
more than what
we are supposed to be.