Souls are Dry Clean Only

I came in with
mud upon
my boots
the night before,
So today I mopped
and swept
and washed
the filthy floor.
That is what is
done with a
It is washed and
cleaned and
made new
What’s to be
done with a
With muddy bootprints
upon its
How can one
mop and sweep
and wash
The dirty deeds
for which
our mothers
Can tears of
real repentence
act as
holy water,
Soap and sud
sentence for
the crimes
and sins that are?
Do not tell me to
confess my wrongs
to either the
priests or birds,
For filthy floors do
not become
clean again with
such simple words.


Sometimes we all need
a hand
Or a leg
Or an arm
To get up
Over the ledge
Or pull us back
From the edge.

They say,
If she had gotten
Help before
she’d be okay.
If she’d only
spoken up more
talked about
how she felt
such serious doubt
for the future
To keep going without

But they didn’t ask
Didn’t try to
her mask.
They didn’t question
her strange
Didn’t see the tracks
of recent tears
just run.
took her at her word
she was still
just having Fun.

Couldn’t we see
the hole
opening up
where she used to be
The empitness
in her smiles
which seemed
to stretch
for miles.

She’d still be
Still thrive
She’d at least still be

**Please seek help if you need it. There are many free resources out there for you or a friend. Sometimes we all just need someone to see through our own mask of happiness and realize that we are not ok. Please check these out.**

Catastrophe seeks Disaster

I am a
I know
Creating chaos
And confusion
Where ever I go
I need a Disaster to
Contain me
Nothing less will do.
Only another
Tumultuous tornado
Could be a match
For this horrowshow.

Only a crazy daredevil
Would dare this
devilish ride
Would dare attempt
To abide
On the Hot Mess
Where I eternally reside.

Only a Disaster
Could ever understand
The pandemonium
The Frenzy
I continually command
Could ever hope to calm
My internal conflict
With its atom bomb.

A History Lesson

We all have history
We wish would remain
Shrouded in mystery
A deep buried pain
We should wish to forget
Impossible strings we long to sever
Love stories made with regret
And boys who were clever.
The past is an open book
For anyone who cared
To take a second look
The soul’s secrets are bared
In the depths of our eyes
There Truth resides,
Betraying lips’ lies.

Just Lust

It’s just Lust.

Hurried mouths wrap lip bows
around darting tongues.
Hurried fingers tear at the fabric
around wriggling forms.
Breath comes in
As pants
to the floor
Amidst the carnage of
the clothes before.
Suddenly on the bed,
or on the floor,
it doesn’t matter which anymore.
Arms and legs intertwined,
does it matter whose is whose?
A rhythm established,
as two forms fuse.
Sweet glory of the mountain
climbing to the top!
Let’s come to that peak together,
before we have to stop.

Tattooed Girls

Tattooed girls make lousy lovers
he says
but maybe all their lovers have been lousy.

Maybe the tattoos on their arms
the scars on their hearts.

Maybe the pain of the tattoo pen
the pain from where the knives went in.

Maybe they’ve been wounded before
and can remember
the pain they were opening their veins for.

Maybe the walls around their hearts
are as new and permanent as their body art.


me and Her

Why can’t he see
how good it could be
What he’s missing with me
by thinking of Her.

Why can’t he see
how sweet I would be
But he’s messing with me
by still choosing Her.

Why can’t he see
how kind I would be
Didn’t he like kissing with me
because he’s still wanting Her.