Blackbirds Without Bliss

“Silvery flakes drifted downward, glittering in the bright light of the harvest moon. The blackbird soared.” 

   Onward and outward with her ashen hued wings. Over forests and past the hidden moon while she echoed of her impending doom. Landing on Penny Lane; ‘Twas the day my life changed. 

   For when she came the air suddenly had weight; Pressing on my chest like cinder times eight. 

    The pupil of her eye resembling nothing but pure darkness

     Like the heart of my mistress, and I shouldn’t want this. 

     But she stayed for days and I never once complained. Despite her silence being like thorns in my veins. 

      I could never detain something so naturally made, yet any thought otherwise filled me with hate. 

     Her realization became my fate. So that night I set my bait; A poorly painted wooden crate secured by a tether around my gate. 

     I called to her and in she flew; I almost wished she knew

     That at first sight of starlight my shaking hands would bind her breast; Wrapping leather upon leather around her chest

     So that when mourning comes in the dawn her beauty will be here instead of gone. 

   I must’ve spoke my inner being, for she glared at me pleading 

       ” What is this I am hearing? who ever said I planned on leaving? Why must you do this in the darkness of the night; Instead of the morning to see my fright. I am not the only one in this life, so why must you hold me so tight? I never said I would fly away, but even if I did my heart is here to stay.” 

     The very next second I let her go

I expected her to soar but she looked at me slow

                  “I love you”

And I knew this to be true for she came back to me every daylight hue

      I was going to hurt her so badly, but it goes to show. 

       If you love her; Let her go. 

And if she stays time and time again, then she truly loves you till every end. 


Confessions of a Visionary Realist

The shades between reality and dreaming are very clear to me. The dim and dull variations of paper work and rejection, and the harrowing, vibrant, extraordinary sparks of love. I was never clear on my own perceptions of love. Until I found that in my spare time of living I often wished I was dreaming. The hands that feed me give off a healthy intention. A love so delicate as baby’s breath in spring and baby’s first Christmas in content. 
The hands that hold me are a glass home. So beautiful and tender. Sharp to cut me if I hiss my tongue too quickly or squeeze too firm. They are working hands. Constantly moving although keeping at a steady pace. Thus the hands of time count the dismemberment; The disengagement; The skin to skin divorce between mine and it. 

    Inside of my glass house are veins. Wires if you will. That pull and tug the ways of the heart. Often times I feel as though we share an artery. For whenever sadness arises we both wilt in heartbreak. Nevertheless; A glass house has a glass heart. And though I hold it dearly to me it is never truly mine to keep for without it. You cannot live to tell the story of past safe keepings. You cannot move on. 

I accept my plunder into this field of broken glass. Because holding a heart so magnificent as time works it’s way around means the world to me. My little glass house has become a temporary home. A home with hollow eyes, a real heartbeat, and a green flicker of envy for the one who figures out how to make a glass house into brick. 

Until the hands of time become withered. I will stay. Letting the feeling of lipstick stained lips decay. Through my skin it will go and only I will know. That you were. Are. And always will be. Mine 

Let’s Talk About Sex…Appeal

Very few people these days like to actually admit what makes them feel attractive. It’s seen as vain or conceited. This to me isn’t the meaning of sex appeal. Something that you find flattering on yourself I might find repulsive on me, and visa versa. This is the beauty of sex appeal. We all have it, yet we express it so differently. Whether it’s lingerie around the house. A form fitting dress. Anything that makes you feel confident inside. For me, one of those things is girly lingerie. 

“The hardest step”

“She ever took”

“Was to blindly trust”

“In who she was” ~ Atticus 

•What makes you feel sexy? And why? •


I lay in purgatory not because of death 

but because 

of sleep 
My ceiling

swirls together 

as my eyelids 

hang weighted 

I crave for

Her touch
The foreign

yet so accustomed 


of Her skin

from when

she shivered


Her inner self

a true 


one of many 

vibrant colors

and peaceful 

rain spells
Mona Lisa 


no comparison 

to the 

alluring and 


aura of 

I want 

nothing more

than to be

with Her
To caress

Her tanned 

cheek and 


my undying love 

through this 

feeling of 



to settle 

with Her in 

a state 

of exhilaration 

For she

is mine 


I am

Purgatory knows 

no real suffering 

than the simplicity 

of yearning 

for the one 

whom you

love the most


I will wrap my heart in a ribbon so pretty it shall be. Tied in a little bow and sealed with uncertainty. What used to be a color of a set of rosy cheeks has been exposed to me and there is where I leak. Blotched with blood stains the bow remains the same. Yearning with an eager voice for you to take the blame. I cried and weeped for more than a few weeks. Telling myself that I should take the heat, but really if we’re being true and gosh I hope we are. You are the one who made this open scar 
        My hair tied up in ribbon so long and so fine. Thick and brown and full of life. Like the color in your eyes. You lift your hands and with a simple tug locks of lust come crashing down. They surround me in a strangling cloud of past hurt and what’s now. I see your face and in your smile there’s a lace of concern. I turn my head and look to the ground my rosy cheeks now burn

Summer Nights

The tears on my face are not those of sorrow but ones of a story in the making. Seeing her for the first time crippled my lungs until I could only gasp at her beauty. She was the flower that blooms after a storm. The intricate design of a web in the moonlight. Suddenly I didn’t have to stand. She carried me in her waves of affection until my heart overflowed with a new passion. I saw shades of vibrant color in the pools of her skin. The translucent drops between us forming a rainbow that only her and I could manage. The rainbow of two hearts becoming one. And miles becoming a mere inch. I then realized I wasn’t crying for it had begun to rain. And the cliche wasn’t the kiss but the way I plastered myself to her tall frame in the knowing that I would stay in her arms for eternity. The thunder roared but my heartbeat stayed steady. Finding its own rhythm so as the lighting grew stronger the Sparks grew in depth and my hands held tighter to hers
That Friday night my pupils dilated in darkened clouds of lust. Releasing a pleasant rain among the roses she had bestowed upon me. For they were the first of many and though they would wilt their memory would stay locked in my heart. The smells of damp hair had been washed away by her perfume. It led trails of fog around my head and into my nose creating a scent I would never forget. Hers. That was the night I no longer complained of being tired by dusk but instead came alive with the flashing views of a forever carnival. The place we were destined to be. Admiring her reflection in a puddle on the pavement, not even a ripple could shift her astonishing features. We spend the night on cotton candy clouds, living our funnel cake fantasies, and kissing behind the curtains of a photo booth.

She didn’t take me to my motel. Instead to an abandoned parking lot just south of the Hollywood sign. The ground had dried but I still swam in swimming pools of pure intoxication. Taking out something from a 70s disco film she played a tune. So soft and sweet that my hips swayed to the breeze of the palm trees. The sky was breaking in bubblegum pinks and grapefruit hues of orange. We stayed in the shade of the famous billboard H and swayed in a sleepy haze. Not caring of the run down apartment complex behind us or of the elders with their walkers telling us to get lost. We were already lost in each other. And we didn’t want to be found 
I never took joy in going to bed a day later than the previous but when she laid me down on her duvet and ever so lightly touched her lips to my shoulder. I discovered it was my new favorite way to live. We looked matted and messy and everything in between but the eyes tell a story. And the one I read tonight was the beginning of a book that I’m never going to close. Wrapped in white sheets to the smell of a past rain. Her body behind mine, still with the spell of sleeping. That night I didn’t dream for I was too excited to wake back up

I Love You, How Are You, and All The Things I Wish You Would Say

I could walk through the door in a statement of despair but the smile could be so broad you’d never know
This is how it goes 

I don’t tell you how I truly feel for I get afraid that the foundation will peel, and not the foundation upon my cheeks for which I spent weeks trying to perfect but the foundation of your skin from within holds your heart of gold, but I am getting old and I’m told that I should be a treated with respect but what am I to expect when you never ask how I am so do you really give a damn? I sit and wait for the grand slam the day when I can finally cry

I’ll drain my eye sockets like the bathtub water like my soul like my head like my heart 

The time I can wrap my arms around you and not be questioned with your thoughts of my doubt but instead a new saying will be brought about and it will combust bringing me to a pile to stardust 

I love you. 

Holding my hair your voice whispering “there there” but I wouldn’t dare tell you this today

Because these are just the things I wish you would say, sitting here day by day

Wondering if you’ll ever come around to pick me up when I have fallen down