Wrapped in Chains


Contemplating her next move
the pounding within her chest
told her what she already knew:

she was nowhere close to break free
from the chains wrapped ’round her so tightly.

With the escape route blocked;
there was no sense in moving
for every wriggle tightened the grip.

Accepting her fate, another day
in this God forsaken place,
if it was her own doing
then it shouldn’t hurt as much.

All there was to lose,
the ghosts of future memories:
the would haves,
could haves,
should haves,
ought-to-do’s,
that ran through her soul
every minute she looked out the window.

If she remained grounded instead of lifting her wings,
maybe she could get used to living this way.

“Just don’t move,” she whispered under her breath.
And there she lied
as ghosts of future memories continued.

Forgotten Opportunities

Now featured in NovaBards Anthology 2021

Throughout my time, it’s been seen
mistakes are easier to see than beauty.
We point out the negative, the faults.

They stick out and prevent us
from seeing the truth of the matter.
I find myself questioning if

it is in our nature or how we’ve been taught
to pick apart every detail and focus on
what could have been better.

Recently I found you, you misspelled tag
on a poem. And you, you forgotten period
at the end of a line. I found you too, you

misspelled word in a poem about the sun
shining down upon you. I see you all,
and you do this to me on purpose,

to show that we are not perfect,
to know that poetry is life and life is not perfect,
and love, our love is not perfect.

We are inevitably flawed and yet I wish it all
to be perfect. I want poetry to be perfect
as it pours directly from our hearts.

Beneath our skin, beneath our shell, our heart
pours out the truest form of emotions
and we strive to reflect our true selves in poetry.

It’s a cyclical battle:
we want to tell our stories,
we want to show who we are,
we want to become something greater
through poetry.

So, when I stop at those forgotten opportunities
I say, “I see you. I get you. I am you, too.”
for we have all been that forgotten detail in someone’s story.

Thank you for reading

Cravings

Like a box of chocolates sitting on the kitchen counter, the ones your doctor says to avoid but you bought them anyway because you deserve a chance to indulge in something sweet and it’s your only way of feeling complete after the rest of your life has been torn from you.

You nibble on them every now and then, or carefully slice a half here and there, because all at once is just too much guilt. Those cravings come despite trying so hard to ignore them. Staring you down in your weakness they taunt with, “just a little taste to satisfy your needs.” And that’s all you’ll allow yourself to appease the cravings.

With a hint of pure ecstasy rolling around inside, your heaving breast wishes it could last but knows it’ll end far too soon.

A Bleeding Heart

It’s getting late and we’re dying to find out
what’s fated us here tonight.

You dare to ask what I’ve done, where I’ve been,
I’ll tell you more than you’d want to know
so let’s start this off slow.

The truth can be a dangerous thing;
you can’t unhear it once the stories have cleared.

I’ve held the hammer to a bludgeoned heart,
been the reason love and light broke apart.

I’ve danced across graves at night,
celebrated the taste of freedom that was mine.

I’ve destroyed many with a single look
then let go of ’em before they could sink their hooks.

I’ve lived through it all with eyes glued to the sky,
as a witness without remorse, only living on the outside.

With a heart paralyzed and surrounded by flames,
I curated multiple tragedies as cupid’s arrow took aim.

With hearts discarded,
I’ve since repented and paid the price
of these words and actions of a former life.

My dear, on this night with you I promise-
my pounding heart is now yours. If you’ll take it,
please don’t open the glovebox where there lies a knife.