For Jared

You wrote of iguanas once,

And forever then I thought of sunbaked deserts.

Maybe it was your sandy bronze skin,

Always a warm hue on the cold rainy days,

When you would sit across from me in class.

We joked of crushes and kisses and you being my dream boy.

I admit, you mesmerized me.

I thought of sandy mountains and hazy horizons,

Of lands you may never even have seen.

You handed me a sweat shirt on a breezy day,

And I could smell you amongst the poetry,

Words dripping with spring and pastel hues,

But you were across the green,

Mysterious and warm,

Brick oven baked,

I could not help but wonder

What would it feel like

To have your sun drenched hands

Peruse the east coast

Of my body. 


Everyone Wants to Kill Themselves

He said “I could just take the safety 

off during one of our training excises, 

but I don’t. I know better than that.

Anyways, I miss you. Can’t wait to be back.” 

He was proud to be part of the Army, 

but other times he was under his own attack. 


When she was sent to the psych  ward 

everyone was surprised, 

but you wouldn’t have been had you looked her in the eye. 

She didn’t try but she had a plan.

I think that is enough of a fucking attempt. 


She said at least once a month I sit and think

that it would be much easier than some of this shit, 

between school and money, and being used and abused, 

I could pop a couple pills, 

it’s the easiest route.


Over a drink that he casually sips, 

he slips in the conversation that this weeks been shit

He says, my mind is slipping, and I got to get away, 

so I’m going home to get some space. 

Three days later, they called to say 

he was hanging from a tree in his favorite place. 


Jay wrote on Facebook, 

I need a friend now. 

A blatant call for help, but none was found. 

He said baby’s momma has got me so low, 

and he said if I did it now, then the baby’d never know. 


There was a little girl barely sixteen years old. 

I held my mom’s hand at her funeral. 


Is it selfish of me to beg you live? 

There’s days I wake up and can’t take this shit,

so why would I ask that you deal with it? 

Is it selfish of you to take your own life?

Every day is the answer when we wonder why. 

Why does everyone want to die?

You tell me, world, how did it come to this?

Poetry for the Depressed

I love you. Endlessly, insufficiently, and more than words can express

and what I am trying to better say 

is that you are deserving, beyond all measures,

of love. 

These black brick paths you have wandered down

you did not drag me down, too. 

I willingly walked there alongside you 

so that I may hold one small flame against 

the forest of black in which you were lost. 

You did not beg me, you did not force me, 

you have sheltered me far too many times 

from my own storm

and I will now hold you against the gales 

that buffet the beautiful confidence and grace

that are your true qualities. 


You are my soul sister, and I will not let you break. 


Like the moon that is illuminated by the glorious sun, 

I only reflect back the love and grace you have given

to me. I am here because of all your good deeds-

because you are as much part of me as my blood 

and let me tell you 

you deserve this love. 


There are no angry words I have not heard before, 

and there is no place to push me. 

I am not budging. 

When you think you have shoved everyone away 

I will not have moved an inch

and in time when you come back to light

you will see you deserve this. 

You deserve every bit of love,

every ounce of your friends’ loyalty

and every worry stretched on our brows. 

You will see with clearer eyes

after you cast aside the dark shades 

that have jaded and obscured your view, 

you will see the beauty that has always 

been alive and thriving in you. 

You deserve to know your priceless value.


When Someone Else Falls in Love With Him

The hopeless romantic and sad abandoned girl in me wants to say 

Leave her and come away with me, run away on the horizon

dappled pink-lemonade hope. Drive off into a sunset 

with the hood down on a convertible neither of us own. 

It would be incredibly naive of me to claim to love you more than her,

or to make an empty promise that I could.

We have not had the time to learn each other

or wear each other around for try.

If I could base the future off of the few dazzling nights of pomp

and new discoveries we found in each other,

then I would beg you come away with me-

though it would be so selfish of me to claim 

to know you better; how you take your coffee,

or if you’re a morning person more than a night dweller. 

I cannot hold up the scant twilight hours we nestled

under summer stars and youthful giggles 

to the cold nights you’ve found warmth in her arms. 

If I had had one more night, maybe I could have seen 

if the future really spelled out love or lust 

but alas none of it matters in the end, 

because she beat me to falling in love with you,

and one lesson we all are taught, 

You snooze, you lose.

Poetry for the Insane

I love your fucked up brain, all squished and disconnected 

in ways scientists cannot pin point. 

I do not mind the moments when it does not fire 

the right neuron to the right channel

and your words come out halted or half formed with saliva

dripping from them. 

I am not overwhelmed when suddenly too many 

brain waves crash into the right shore of your frontal lobe 

and you hurry to get the things that do make sense out

in a rushed avalanche I try to ride.

Even if I am drowning in the metaphors that only make sense

in your minds eye, I think, I bet that eye is as sea-blue-green

as the very ones smiling at me and that, my friend, is all the clarity 

I need to know you.


If I could, I would stand between the burned bridges

of your neuron channels,

or what ever they are called, I would stretch my arms out for you

so that every neuron could make it to its destination

so that you could say boldly to someone

I love you.

I would expand my body to fit in the hollow holes

in your brain so that no emotion could fall

through and escape you,

but ONLY

if you wanted me to.


Your brain is beautiful as it is

but if you wanted it whole, I would see to it.

But every time you slide me a note

that doesn’t even have my name I am grateful

that I have the paper you spilled your guts

on, because your guts are fucking beautiful, too.  


To My Ian, My Hero

    First off, I thank every soldier for their service. 

     More importantly, though, I take this day to remember my beloved Ian, someone I was intimate with and who was a great friend of mine for many years. 

     Having lost a few people while I, and they, were young, I have found it hard to claim my grief in the past. When both Jake and Ian died it was tragic, and there were a million girls suddenly claiming these grand love affairs and feelings buried deep, and it was really hard for me to deal with. At some points, I felt that my relationship with them was not special, and that I should not express my grief, or that I didn’t have as much of a right to mourn as some others. 

     One thing I have gotten better with over years, though, is reminding myself that my relationship with both of these young men was in fact very deep, profound, and more importantly very special, to them and me. 


      Ian died in Afghanistan. He was a friend of mine from back in high school, and as we both took to the road for long periods of time, rather than diminish our friendship, it highlighted it. We both knew what it was like to come home and feel misplaced, we both knew what it was like to miss home and hate it all at the same time. The long months apart gave us a solid foundation to keep building on. He would call me in Ireland, in Germany, in where ever the heck I found myself. I knew to look for the weird satellite numbers that meant his cheerful voice. 

     Today is so very special. I am really at a loss for words, none of this sums up the immense emotion I feel on Memorial Day and Veterans Day and many other days that have no labels but leave me gasping for air and begging the sky for answers. I know Ian died doing what he loved and believed in, and that he was a hero by every measure. I hope, I hope, I hope that you are all thankful for the soldier’s sacrifices, regardless of what your political opinions are. 

     Thank you, thank you, thank you all soldiers all over. Please know there are people out there who love, support, and give all thanks to you. 


Dear Followers

     I have another blog that I beg you check out. This one is more about my daily philosophies and some of my more free-write and daily-think-about sort of shenanigans. It also follows me travels, and may be the platform for my sudden interest in travel writing. (Not necessarily sudden, but finally labeled. It all makes sense now!)   This also introduces lovely people I meet during all my travels, and ways to rediscover your community if you’re a wandering soul that has to stay put! So please take a moment to join me in my daily ramblings, and some of the less eloquent but all the more beautiful parts of my journey! 


Thank you few and faithful! I’m sure in time we shall continue to grow! So thank you all for your follow already! 



Is This Quitting Writing?

   Lately I have really hated everything I’ve written. I feel like my poetry is bland and I’m sick of the free style I’m always using (although that’s because I write how I speak and I envision myself speaking the poetry). However, I don’t write in any cool styles anymore. I also miss the stimulation of a writing group. 

    My short stories all feel disconnected. I’m always toeing this weird line of writing very much from my life, but fictionalizing things to make them more readable, and more like what I wish it was. It often does make for good material, I think I balance it well enough, but I find that the characters are too disconnected sometimes, because I start to get lost on some of those fine lines. 

     I have been experimenting a bit with Nano fiction writing, and with some different Nano lengths, but I just feel like everything I write lately is so bland or I’ve already said it. With my bigger project that I was chugging along on, I think I totally lost my place.  I’ve been going days without looking at my blogs, and I can’t bring myself to look at journals. 

     Is this quitting writing? Or am I just fighting with it? This love hate relationship. Michael Lee (the poet, check check check him out) wrote a lengthy note on his Facebook page ( about all the failures he had to face before he finally accomplished something. This he said the day after he was awarded  2014 Minnesota State Arts Board Artist Initiative Grant. He also said, “My story, which is hardly at its beginning, is not about being extraordinary, its about failing 100 times so that you may succeed once before failing 100 more times after that. Its about realizing that nothing is wasted, that every time you miss the mark you can learn something, you can better yourself and your process, whatever it is. ”   That quote comes at an important time for me as I’m ‘fighting with writing’, and also am at a grand crossroads in many other parts of my life. I’m at that pivotal point where I have nothing, no job, no place of my own, no car, nothing, and it’s a great blank page of freedom, but also a big black expanse of unknown. 

     As in regards to my writing, the most advice I’ve heard repeated is that all the writer’s out there keep writing, even when it seems hopeless and unbearable. 

    So at least I’m writing. And oh, I’ve picked up my personal journal again, too.