It’s neither Broken nor Torn,

Ripped, Forlorn, nor Worn on my sleave,

Though it’s been Beat at-

Hit at-

Pulled together-

Pushed apart-

Squeezed like babies cheeks,


Pierced with a Dart like a sought Bulls eye.

And as Delicate as it seems

With all it’s Holes, Burns, and Bruises,

I gently unknot it at it’s seams

To share with you

My Resilient Heart!



Picking Skin

Pulled two ways.

Feel the back and forth lolling.

Pull it two ways

watch it stretch from wall to wall

and spread it thin.

yourself covering the space like a table cloth

yet smashing into yourself

because at times you let go.


Who’s really pulling?

Is it you pulling away or me pulling in?

Are we still both going the same way?

Is it me pulling away and you following?

Sometimes it’s hard to know where it’s tugging.

So I sit, scratch, sniff, sit think sit scratch, pick, rip. Ow, oops.

So I sit and wait and try to think of something to say because what’s on my mind is always love. Why I search and want love more than anything, and when I have it, than I’m crazy with it and can’t think of anything else, but it tames me. Before I have it my mind is in a dishevel, but how beautiful sometimes the grotesque is. That is love to me. Grotesque because who acts beautiful in love, but it is more beautiful than anything.

So I sit and think and pick as I obsess over scenes and conversations in my head about the what was and could and should be.

Take a moment to pause and pick before realizing that I should stop because people are watching. They are always watching and I know it, and you know it, but we forget about it and think no one is really watching anymore.

Always repeating until it happens and than replaying.

In my head when I’m with you, I think About how I love you all night long so that sometimes I can’t fall asleep.

But always going back to the picking because there is something that is satisfying about pulling a piece of skin off even though it hurts sometimes.


She Loves Art

She sits alone in her crowded room. Crowded with the things she desires and creates,

But still alone. The room fills with music with no escape. There are no windows,

So if a stranger happens into the room, he is hit hard with something, but can’t figure

What it is.

Her walls are filled with her own paintings. Not another person has one in their space,

but she looks around and admires them and loves them, at first.

Over time she begins to be bothered by them and must create something new

so that she could feel the pleasure she felt at first creation.

The old ones are not bad, nothing has changed except the familiarity.

She can not get rid of them, because a lot of work went into their production,

but still they are old and familiar, and losing a lot of the appeal they had when first finished.

The flaws begin to stand out in stark contrast against the idealization at inception.

Possibly, that is why she does not like to share them with others,

Because they are not works that you love dearly and increasingly over time,

But they are more of a fancy one plays with in brevity.

She lays sprawled like an injured spider feeling an abundance of emptiness.

At one point in her life she takes a pause and it dawns on her,

in order to create that piece of art that grows a fondness over time,

She realizes the need to experience that emotion.

How is she supposed to pull from her art an emotion she has never felt?

The girl leaves the room unsatisfied

Having spent a lifetime on a cornucopia of frivolous objects,

But not a single one that supplied her with joy.

That night, feeling lonelier than she had felt in a very long time,

She goes to a small party where no one really knows one another.

A room filled with lonely people with manufactured smiles

Made her sad because in that moment, despite the loneliness,

And the lack of authenticity,

Life existed behind the plastic faces that were

Always changing and constantly growing.

She saw more beauty than she had

Seen sitting in her crowded room surrounded by all her creations

She once thought she knew and loved.

She sat there staring down at her small feet thinking how strange life is when the things

That should not be beautiful are more desirable than those that she designed to be

Admired. .

A dark man with one of the most sincere smiles she’s ever seen walks up to her and takes a seat

next to her on the couch.

Surprisingly she is drawn to him though he had a weak nose and jutting chin,

And in that moment she falls in love with something that peaks through the imperfections.

They talk all night. He asks her for her number because he feels

There is a deep connection between the two.

She declines and runs home to her crowded room.

It was not with him whom she fell in love with, but the conjured emotion.

She is restless with the onslaught of emotions that bombards her through night.

Her cheeks are still ablaze from the conversation she had with the dark man whose name she

Never asked for. How funny that they talked for hours about everything except both forgot

to ask each other their names, and it didn’t matter.

She painted that night and when the flurry of the intense emotions began to subside,

she dropped her brush and fell onto her bed and slept peacefully until dusk the following day..

She felt hung over and stiff when she awoke,

Though she didn’t have a single drink the night before.

She looked at the painting and smiled because she saw something beautiful there,

She saw the intensity of the stark dark image contrasted against the blur of color behind it.

It made sense and it was beautiful,

She remembers being able to watch herself creating

Without understanding how it happened.

She hung it up after signing her name and sat down staring at it happy.

For a while…

However over time, it started losing it’s allure to her. She began to be annoyed by it.

She realized it was still missing something. When she created it, the emotions were right,

They were there. And when she looked at it it still possessed some of the beautiful qualities that

she felt that night, but it was fleeting because it stood still trapped in a single moment which

was now only a glorified memory of an idea of what seemed to have happened.

One restless night she decides to leave and try another party.

Similar to the one before and she finds a couch and again a man approaches her.

She asks his name but is disappointed because his name does not seem to match his face.

He asks for hers and he does not hear her correctly, and calls her the wrong name,

But she doesn’t feel it necessary to correct him nor does it seem to matter.

That night she goes home with him and feels empty in the morning. She had strange

Dreams all night and the insides of her stomach churned, gurgled, and rolled up and down.

He slept the whole night with a heavy arm thrown over her chest that made it even more


As soon as she wakes up, she dresses and begins to walk out.

He stares at her with a smile on his face and asks if she would come over again that night.

Ready to decline, she grabs for the doorknob, but is struck by a memory

of a dark face and glistening smile.

She returns that evening.

This continues for months,

She sat in her room often when she could get away from the guy with the wrong name.

She would stare at her painting and see the beauty in it,

But she began to feel like the painting.

A little empty and

Extremely contrived.

That was the last time she saw the man who’s name seemed wrong for him.

And she extinguished her cigarette butts on the painting that would taunt her.