5.28.10 – 3.06

and we find that honest
is rarely achieved

i want to stay hidden
in the walls
white washed
and void of faces

all we can picture
ourselves are as lifeless
bodies void of anguish

knives protruding
from naked breasts
and darkened eyes
glazed with tacit death

hush quiet rest
coo the feathered
morning doves


5.26.10 – 1.40

like the darkened mist
of pre-dawn, i linger for
the unlikely rain,

and i find that my
passions, like the moon, can be
plucked – heartlessly – like

a blemished pearl from
blackened, futilely stained
fields of broken clouds.


5.09.10 – 5.53

grip and friction between locked limbs
become lingering touches that burn and
lips which brush (so dangerously)
against wind-chilled skin

i can feel the kindled sensation broil
provocatively beneath his fingertips
and the warmth of his face so irresistibly close
to mine

“… how i so wish…
i could get used to him…”

5.03.10 – 12.39

when grown-ups say,
“don’t worry –
all children, like you,
pass through these
kinds of phases…”,
they don’t think
of the graves
that lay entwined
in heath;
graves that only
dawn recalls
with each passing day.