Paper Dolls and Paper Voices

We write poetry 

because the world bleeds, and we
put pen to solace. 

We live, we write, our poetry.

What we dream of is

uniquely ours to create. 
Put pen to paper. 

Sunday Mornings

We've been taught to kiss

with our eyes closed, legs open,
our hearts somewhere in between.
If our eyes are windows into the soul, 
then I'd rather keep mine alert 
to seek truth and reciprocated feelings
shared under warm duvets and 
in conversations at Irish pubs, 
with backgrounds as sweet as 
the minor keys of a symphony. 

There is romance in mystery, 
the moments you lose your
breath are simply intoxicating. 
It's the rise of the roller coaster
and the anticipation of the fall.

There is love in knowledge, in clarity,
in commitment outside of lust. 
Do not confuse this with false promises, 
with guarantees of a future that is
more tangible or real than a prophecy. 
Instead, the focus is on the here and now. 
I adore you wherever here may be,
an invisible cloak cast around the world. 
I love you now, in this moment and the next. 

Javascript is the prettiest font.

Would I have access 

to your clubs, to your spaces
if I were a boy?

When It Happens

They used to tell us we were unworthy,

then they ascribed certain words as hateful,
exponentially upleveling a crime in status
in a race to prove the most harm done. 

Words have since subsided, they've
slithered away into dens across America
and become learned behaviors taught
in a curriculum hidden amongst shadows.

Insidious is the word that comes to mind,
it captures the danger lurking in the dark. 
If we're all made of stardust, if we could
burn together for long enough, would
we have enough light to see beyond
the world they have sculpted for all of us?

In zero sum games we cheer for a victor.
But if the enemy of my enemy is my friend, 
maybe we can solve one problem with another. 

Outside These Lands

Little one, the world

can be strange, cold, and twisted. 
Bundle up, stay warm. 

Untitled

We tell men to be mountains, that 

their words should tumble down 
like boulders shaken loose in an avalanche. 

We point them to limestone 
to demonstrate 
how being porous, being open 
is a threat to their foundations. 

We tell them 
rivers flow around you, 
trees depend upon you to drive 
them closer to a burning star,
and the earth would be flat
without your existence. 

But what I love most are his curves, 
the ones I explore with light touches, 
the ones I wrap my arms around and 
squeeze to let him know that pressure
can be withstood. 

But what I love most are the curves 
of his voice, its softness...
when he whispers, 
when he asks for more. 

What I want to tell him is that he 
can be sunshine, the ocean, 
the breeze in the air.

That there are forces of nature 
ever so quietly providing without 
the grandeur of harsh, 
white snow covered peaks. 

What I want to point him to are 
the hard parts of me, the armor 
my warrior clan molded to my skin, 
an invisible cloak that can be cast off. 

What I want to tell him is that 
softness is for him, as hardness is for me.
It does suit him just as easily, and
would be less weight on his shoulders.

That's All Folks

My warmth is not yours;

I offered, you declined, and
I found another. 

She-Wolf

I need you to know 

that I bleed often, freely
when trapped in a cage. 

In Search of Safety and Warmth

I am not looking 

for the moon, stars, dark magic. 
Just a sunlit ride.