Poet

  • We Are The Poets

    We are the poets. The ones who listen to the bones of the earth. The ones who feel the wind, who know the wind, who are the wind. The bridge to the aching quiet. We build it and we travel… Continue reading

  • Unlimited

    I feel the way I feel because I feel the way I feel. Because I am soft and gentle, because I am wild as the rain and free as the sky. But I am not free, not really, not in… Continue reading

  • How Is A Rose To Grow?

    A rose to meet the morning bright, to grow in cheer, to gather life. Yet day to day the rose does wither, day to day the rose does wither, lost beneath the foggy dreary. Lost. Beneath. How is a rose… Continue reading

  • At Five

    Sometimes I feel five. Like the world is big and I am small. And there are kids all around bigger than me, louder, scarier, bolder than this softness that folds me like tissue. (No one else folds like tissue. Just… Continue reading

  • All That I Am

    Today, I begin the school of life again. I hold my own hand, soft and unsure, as I stand at the gates of the unknown. I am afraid. I am also deep within the stillness of unafraid— the beautiful tendril… Continue reading

  • Alleyways

    Slinking down alleyways, thrilled by the rippling dark. Black upon white, cold stone. Daisies tilt their heads: smile. Axes bite into crimson bone, dwelling in the corners of the corners. Pure. Devilish. A curious mix. Grace breathes life into fire.… Continue reading