Poetry · Writing

little red dream

she wishes from a washed brick balcony

stars too far to hear her

but her song still travels

paved with a milky trail of clouds

it might be all that’s left

she’ll never cease her song

until the day the stars reach their subtle ears

closer to her wolf proof balcony

she’ll be back the morrow

an the next

until the stars

are in her palms

Poetry · Writing

righteous movement

i wonder what you think of me

if you think at all

if you wave white flags for surrender

or who you pray to

if culture was the start-

was that you?

you’ve been on my mind

debating to see if you can see me

a little different

not ready for that conversation but

i can see it going there

when i am ready we will

maybe

Poetry · Writing

i am hotpocket

i don’t stand a chance

against the sun

but someone has to

he stands tall without a rival

burning the less worthy

like a hot pocket

going around in a circle

unopposed

talkin’ reckless

can never get near ’em

that’s not the world i want to remember

if i exist

will my face be in tact

slippin’ off a plate

wet dishes

if we exist

past four hundred times

over three hundred tics