Tag Archives: Sad


You were born in June light
when the lazy rays of summer are
at their brightest

And the sun beats the backs of men
like Apollo’s stinging whip.

I was born during February’s freeze
when the snowflakes kiss your cheek
in frenzied flurries

And winter winds howl at your door
like wounded Persephone.

We are sisters—

Alike in blood and birth alone.

In thought and soul we remain
locked inside our own archipelagos

Our songs forever clashing as we
tango around the other in clumsy
stockinged feet

Arms never to reach outwards in a

Oh, Stranger—

I’ll never know your season well
enough to call it home.



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The words (my words) do not come. No sentence slinks into place. No poetry whispers songs into my ear. Nothing. The words are silent. Muted. Slack jawed. Dead.

The words are gone. Vanished. Got the hell out of Dodge. Said adios. Said screw you. Said it’s not you it’s me. Left the moment I knew not one syllable could save me. Not one good goddamn syllable.

You see, a writer is only as persuasive as their words, and I’ve got none. Not a one. Zilch. Just wordless pockets; a pen empty of ink. A heart devoid of punctuation. It beats dull and droning and story-less-ly. It thuds without knowing what a thud means. It’s an idiot machine.

My heart, along with the lungs, veins, brains, muscles, stomach, intestines and all other humanly bits, goes on numbly. Abandoned of verse it (I) freeze. Internally there is a sputtering of ideas that cannot be freed, so a circuit shorts. Crumbles. Withers. Ruptures. Starts a frenzied panic switch release.

Alone, speechless, I choke on guttural tears. The body shakes. Writhes. Grows heavy and hot and cumbersome. Too awkward to negotiate; I cannot move. I lay in bed, cursing myself in a language I no longer understand.

The day you left, the words did too. I don’t know which is worse? Missing the words or missing you.

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Least Of All

Love is easiest
For whomever loves the least.

The Least never worries.

He never paces circles
Hard and flat into the carpet,
Fraught with fear that I may disappear.

The Least never misses most.

He may think of me sporadically,
In moments dull and lonely
But not in his smiling revelry—

Never in his triumphs or his joys.

The Least never needs.

Not as I need.
Not all the time
Not frequently.
Only when it suits him;
Only when the night puts on his cloak.

The Least loves guiltless and carefree.

Abandoning his watch of me,
Brings no bullet ache into his heart
Nor raging river streams from his eyes.
No, he shall feel vacantly free.

He is absolved of all sin—
Love only whispered to him.

Yes, love is easiest
For whomever loves the least.
Too bad I love the most,
It has cost me everything.

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