window of her soul

Autobiography 2nd Draft

She is made of sun flowers and unreasonable questions; she drinks the sky in her morning coffee while curiosity holds her hand. Sun dresses and over sized cardigans breathe most comfortable against her skin.Her lips are too passive when time calls to be bold, but much too opinionated in the rooms that should wear silence. She’s been told that the sun colors the night of her hair and people often tell her she wears the ocean in her eyes.

Her body sings an undefined melody; a Janis Joplin meets Norah Jones type of concert echoing in the rhythm of her walk. Stuck between personalities she builds a collage of her soul, almost as messy as her bedroom floor.She bathes daily in sunshine, hoping her skin still has enough room to soak up the promise left in its rays.She dips herself in revelry, and tiptoes through life as if the ground offers refuge to a delicate secret.

She struts her messy hair and dirty toes; wears no makeup when the sun’s fingerprints hug her cheeks. She carries her life bled to the paper beneath a yellow binding that rests in her purse.Vanilla chai and sleepy rhymes turn the page to her nighttime rituals. The ocean is her favorite scene, while the rain writes her safest song; something about the water makes her feel clean again yet speaks remnants of her past.

She finds that the words ‘I love you’ never leave her mouth at the right time and she wishes she could proudly carry innocence upon her shoulders again; those were the years she still felt beautiful.

When thirsty lips cried her eyes dry, she taught herself to lay happiness in hands that hold the sun. She lets forgiveness dance across her skin as she opens her chest to breathe the air of her King. 

Autobiography

She is made of sun flowers and unreasonable questions
she drinks the sky in her morning coffee
while curiosity holds her hand.

Her lips are too passive when time calls to be bold,
but much too opinionated in the rooms that should wear silence.

Sun dresses and over sized cardigans breathe
most comfortable against her skin.
She’s been told that the sun compliments
the night of her hair and people often tell her
that she wears the ocean in her eyes.

Her body sings an undefined melody;
a Janis Joplin meets Norah Jones type of concert
echoing in the movement of her walk.
Stuck between personalities she builds a collage of her soul,
almost as messy as her bedroom floor.

In the summer months she bathes daily in the sunshine,
hoping her skin still has enough room to soak up
all the promise left in its rye's.

She dips herself in revelry,
and tiptoes through the rain
as if each drop wore the delicacy of a secret.

She struts her messy hair and dirty toes;
wears no makeup when the sun leaves fingerprints on her cheeks.

She carries her life bled to the paper beneath
a yellow binding that rests in her purse.

She finds that the words ‘I love you’
never leave her mouth at the right time.
And when heartbreak dressed her on the morning that he left,
she searched for answers at the bottom of old whisky bottles and new eyes.

She wishes she could proudly carry innocence upon her skin again,
because those were the years she still felt beautiful.

(1st draft, unfinished)

the air tastes of change

Secrets of Rain

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

A Silent Love

voice is simply breath colored by sound;
so I love you means nothing
unless said with the eyes
unless said with the touch

both of which you've spoken to me.
and though words mean nothing aloud
you've got yours spinning
'round my head,
tangled through my chest
voicing the rhythm of my heart

wrapped around my legs
tying me to the ground
built around you. 

Speechless by Rudy Francisco

Such an amazing spoken word artist, Rudy Francisco is one of my favorites. His work is so inspiring.

Newest Draft of 'The Garden'

Here is my newest draft, and shortened version of 'The Garden'


Your breath sweats against my cheek now,
like an attempt to apologize
but not actually caring enough to voice
the letters to the air.

I close my eyes to escape you.
the delicate blues that sculpt my spirit
now drown to a salty abyss.

Is this my punishment? God must have named me Eve
as I buried myself deep within the shadow of the forbidden tree--
it's just that you tasted so sweet for a little while
so I allowed myself to drink the lust from your skin,
and I carved my name so deep into your back
as if I'd then have some kind of possession over all your feelings.

But I'm sorry God,
I guess I got lust confused with another four letter word
that seemed to roll beautifully off his lips to mine
that first time he kissed me
like a lingering secret that could only be revealed
if I followed him beneath his sheets.

But now you've left me here, alone
in this unknown garden.
my thoughts grow through vines
across my most outer layer of skin,
the only thing that could clothe me
yet still leaving me completely exposed.

I bite my lip so hard to bleed a glue
contracting the surfacing words of sadness
filling my tongue,
leaving little room for breath itself.

My petite fingers that once kissed you so delicately
now run to the form of angry fists,
an action of self defense in case your
body language decides to hit me harder with
the carelessness in your lifeless hands.

I notice a pulsating pain coming from my left palm;
I look to find the blood soaking remains of my heart
still beating
but slowly.

You drank me dry, every last drop of my love
and returned my heart only once your thirst was quenched;
too tired to place it back among my chest
from all the games you like to play?

You left my heart in one hand
and my eternal soul in the other.
Leaving nothing but my fingertips
to shelter them from the sting
of the outside world.

I'll never forget the day you traded me in
for more expensive drugs, and cheaper women.
It was the same day I traded my eternal life
in for you.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.