There she is

The Poet in my head

She rises to wake

Once again

To ponder and wonder

Is it possible to love

With too much vigor?

To have sunken too deep

Into the arms of the protagonist?

The Poet in my head

Makes every word graceful

In moving through my dark thoughts

I am of a cualacino

On the heart of his vigilance:

It is not whether the sight of me remains

But the bitter temperature I leave

Says the Poet in my head.

Winter Leaves

I hate the cold

But I still surround myself

With plunging icicles,

The world does not melt around me

For I am not summer

But a pleasant autumn breeze


In the present of extremes.

They believe

I am also ice

As I hide behind mirrors

They see only their own white

No maroons or marigolds.

I hate the cold

But I lay

In the Arctic

And pretend I can stay,

Where frostbite and flu

Weapons of hate

Threaten my bare

Peaceful trees.

I am under constant fire

From the Winter Queen,

For she sees I am the ruler

Of my own seasonal fortress

So she tears and chops

Ripped apart my personality.

I am freezing

Fingers blue

Lips white

I am freezing

I mustn’t stay

But I see no place for leaves

In the snow.

And So The Queen Rubbed Off On The Princess (Selfish Part II)

One day the African Princess

Escaped the English Queen

She sought a man

So tall, handsome, and pristine.

At first their romances was oh so bright

But the Princess had a tortured soul

Still full of untapped spite.

And so she constantly spit upon her love

With an arrogant sneer

And no care for consequences to come.

The man who once thought

The Princess to be perfect

Realized now

He no longer thought her to be worth it.

Her loved turned his back to leave

But the Princess began to desperately plead:

I need you to stay
Love me until I find my way
I need you to be with me
Until I am once more whole
I need you to stay
And heal my tortured soul.

And so the man did not leave

But the Princess knew

A new heart she needed to cleave.


There once was an African Princess-to-be

Who lived in the year 1853

And was invited out by the English queen for tea

But when she arrived, there were no crumpets or mugs

Only men with dogs and whips and thugs

But do not be deceived

The Princess received

Her afternoon tea with the queen.

And the queen cried out

“I want her for my own!”

As she sat on her sparkling ruby-red throne

And the Princess whispered to herself

“Thank God, I shall not be sold!

I shall live in this palace until I grow old!”

So she worked at the royal court

For years that never felt short

Yet every day

The Princess did pray

To thank to queen for not sending her away.

Though the more she thought

She suddenly caught

The inkling that something wrong she had bought

For to the Princess the queen did lie

About that meeting with tea and cherry pie

“I was stolen away!”

The Princess thought with dismay

The queen did not save her

For she had still enslaved her

And the African Princess-to-be

Decided the English queen was quite selfish, indeed.


I saw her beauty

Long hair and thin face

And so I said

“Let me take you out.”

I heard hear voice

Bright and ringing

Her passions running ramped

Through her extravagant mind

And so I said

“Be mine.”

I heard her pain

Demons so freely flowing

From quivering lips

Broken down

From aching melancholy inklings

Eyes filled with dismay

At the cruelness captured

In a single day

And so I said

“I love you.”

She saw my beauty

The smile I brought to her face

She heard my thoughts and passions

Looked my demons in the eye

Felt the same pain I bore

As we became one in a single society

And so she said

“I do.”

Disapproving Signs

I think the universe is telling me

To let go of you

Every melody on the radio

The words on the back

Of a stranger’s T-shirt

The tears that cascade from the sky

When the clouds turn charcoal

The casual glimpse

Of a brunette boy on a brick street

And the black colour

Sewn around my neck.

I say screw the universe

I won’t listen to the radio anymore

And how can I read the back

Of a stranger’s T-shirt

When my eyes are trained on you?

And on the days the clouds pout gray

I have you,

A ray of peachy glow

And when raindrops fill my eyes

I feel a finger trail of yours

From my cheek bone to my chin

More comforting than change.

As for the black colour

Sewn around my neck,

I feel it in your grasp

Been ripped out

One stitch at a time

And despite the pain it brings

Every time my soul

Become a little less dark

I feel a little more free.

I need you.


We love the moon

Despite it’s craters

Despite it’s paleness

We love it’s luminous glow

It’s symbol of romance

And the way it fills the night air

With lust and mystery.

We love music

The suspension and resolution

The flow and patterns

Whether the lyrics are of joy

Or sadness.

So why is it

We can’t see each other

In the same light?

Despite his paleness

Despite her suspensions

Despite our craters

We are luminous

Glowing starlets,

Smiles and laughs

Touches and gestures

Symbols of a romance

Between minds

And not bodies.


I’ve never been one

To sit still

At least,

Not for long.

You’ve gotten me this far

Complacent for months on end;

Six to be exact.

My pet leviathan

Has fallen asleep

And the mad man

Has long since vacated

My doorstep.

Friends and family

Are all happy for me

And my outer parts, too.

The girl of change

Has fallen silent

And with her that’s ok.

After all,

She longed to be safe

And safe she remains.

But something’s bubbling now

The Damsel of The Inferno

Rises out of ashes,

A Phoenix of her own rebellion

Spreading wings

And tongue-flicked flames

Scratch me from the inside.

For now,

I’m silent,

But what happens

When the outer parts


All I can figure out

Is it’s time for change

For the girl of change

Once more.

Du Narcisse Exaucé

What makes a poet, anyways?
The drunken metaphors
That catch us off guard
In the sobriety of the day?
Or the sudden insights
Taking our sanity
In the pulsing night air
Cool against my sweating skin?
Is it secrets we cannot seem to keep
The dramatic lines
Formed from simple trifles
Minds twisting
At every turn?
Or maybe it’s just an ego
Self-proclaimed “poet”
Nothing more than locks of hair
Around a swollen head
Kinks and curls
With words and lines
Ink writhers
At my fingertips
A fiery tongue.
Tell me
Am I a poet?
Or a narcissistic teenager
Full of angst and impulses
With a few words
Tucked into the hem of her skirt.