Walls and words and obligations
I am locked up in a self made prison
Influenced by my self righteous thinking and egotistical sense of morality
I should have slummed it up with the locals,  getting a piece of the action where I could, and finding what happiness I had at the bottom of a $4 wine bottle
But now I’m living in a self made prison, concrete all around, the only lilac bush in sight
Can this thing of beauty survive the harsh environment that surrounds it, penetrating it, damaging it,  beating it .
I’ll have to see.



Being a mother is a thankless job.
Especially when it’s not your own child.
I remember my own mother tirelessly combing through lice in my hair, taking sick days off work for me, holding me as I cried when I fell asleep.
But she birthed me in her womb, grew me from a small seed.  Watched my eyes get bigger, my bones get stronger, my hair grow longer.

How can I commit the same level of attention and care never having had that flutter in my belly or tiny hand on my face?

Can love grow faster if need be?  Can a woman become a mother just because the call arises?

I pray that the Goddesses that came before me can give me the strength I need to work harder, not give up, pour onto my heart their grace.

Or may God have mercy on me.  And my acquired child.

Syn Divinare: The High Priestess

I sat upon my chair, the sturdiness both comforting and alarming.  I felt overly aware of my posture as he leaned in, his dark, soulless eyes deeper than any man’s, any god’s.  “He knows me,” I thought to myself.
“Open your hands,” he says in his grim, yet seductive tone and I do his bidding.
Out drops the darkest, most beautiful ruby colored flesh of nature I have ever seen.  One by one, they fill my hands, gleaming underneath the candlelight, their pigment staining my skin.  I know I shouldn’t, but I must.
I bring the fruit to my mouth and the seeds burst open on my tongue, the juiciness, the sweetness, the bitterness, the grittiness, it all comes together, and I’m not sure what I feel, but I know I have to have more.
Of them.
Of him.
Ours is not a conventional love.
It stings in my throat, like nectar of the gods.
But I know this is where I belong.
I was never meant to be the happy, cheerful maiden that gallivants among the daisies.
The place where day turns to night, heaven turns to hell, and good becomes evil, that’s where I belong.
Visitors don’t last long here.  But personally, I believe they are just not man enough or woman enough to reside here.
I am my mother’s daughter and I am my husband’s empress and I am exactly who I know I would become.
“There is a core of your being that will never be his…..”
It echoes in my mind.
A girl has to keep some things for herself.

Wake Up, Romance Is Not Dead

I daydream about the time you brushed my hair away from my face, your fingers grazing the sides of my cheek lovingly and warmly.  I felt the vibration up my spine, just like the time that you pushed me against the side of that brick building and buried your face in my neck, your lips all over me, my head falling back, eyes convulsing in their sockets, reveling in the moment.  I can get drunk on your lovelust for me, every word you’ve sung, every note you’ve played, every sonnet you’ve written.  Romance is not dead, it exists within you.

None of that ever happened.

I recall the time I came home from a bad day at work, almost about to give up on life as I knew it and you rearranged the bedroom for me so that I would have a comfortable place to read at night before I went to sleep.  And I sobbed in your arms because life is hard, so hard, and you know that.  And you know me, you know me so well that you do the laundry when I don’t ask and organize the cupboards and attempt to load the dishwasher.  I get off on the way you fix my car and make sure I get where I’m going safely and pay for dinner, always vegetarian sushi.

Romance is not dead, it exists within you.

My Guard, My God.

My guard is a sheep, white as snow, roaming the open pastures, grazing on his food, carefully keeping a watchful eye to his surroundings as the predators close in.  He is cautious, lets no one know that he is the one doing the shepherding, he is the one tending the flock.  He is the epitome of irony, a meek and mild soul, who knows not the pains of war.  And yet, he keeps his gaze to he fields, waiting for any passersby who may cause potential harm.  He needs not alarm anyone to his presence.  And yet, in the stillness of the night and the humbleness of the day, he comes back to me, let’s me stroke him behind his ears, run my fingers through his tough wool, and provides the love I desperately need.  Not a pet, he’s free to roam as he pleases, enjoying the benefits of the earth and all it’s blessings.  I love him and he loves me but we don’t need each other.  Still, we co-exist beautifully in this universe as he guards me and I, him.

Cloudy Skies

I like walking around with the cloudy skies.
The ambient light, the steam from my cup, and the varied skylines blur together into the fascinating shapes amidst the clouds.
And I seem so limited.  And the clouds, so un.

They hover over me like they’re waiting.
To drop, to transform, to mold into my transcendental imagery I’ve concocted during the night’s restful learning session.
They know more than I, the skies.

Like when I’ll be able to step out into the world and feel like I belong.  Like my heart belongs somewhere.  They belong to me and I to them, their chilly kisses smear over my face.  They roll around and embrace me, like a lover.

Dreams Rejected

My mind goes to the next encounter.
Where I come to your place, you say no, I take off my clothes, you say no, I rub up against you, my skin on your shirt, you say no. And I have to know, what do I have to do to say to get you to say yes.
When we are only connected in dreams, why do you reject me?
It’s the one safe place we can be together.
But I leave, my tears blurring my vision through the windshield.
I still love you.