yours, truly

If I show you the inside of my heart you might die of frostbite It’s black and frozen There are no cracks or crevices, no sunbeams of light Only the abyss and heaviness of the infinite Suffocated breath In this world, these times, these superficial plastic without purpose days I’d like a rewind I was born sad you see Born with sadness in my marrow Dripping from my old spirit

Beautiful You

There is a lack of elegance, sexiness and mystery missing in photographs of women today, especially celebrities and the overexposed, blasé way they brand themselves and how they are portrayed through the lens. Social media and fashion have made women seem like untouchable objects, loud, fake and even desperate at times. The “look at me” culture screaming for more and more attention. I have always had a more hate than

Uniquely, You

If you can live with gum on your shoe, sweat on your brow and frown lines quivering from your lip, well then I can too. You are a cautionary tale of the worst and best kind of chaos, tortured buried secrets and lies. Brush off the shit and the stink, unmasking truth. Embrace the planetary spins and every so often celebrate silver linings. Be better than me, bigger, more evolved.

Indian Red

Hate has no place in the home, on the mean streets, or the man-made war zones. Of this ugly 21st century that is so unkind. United as one, we are not. We are not even close in these chaotic, heartbreaking times of epic, earth shattering cosmic shifts and distorted evil proportions. Terrorists, murderers and violent, you are most assuredly unwelcome. The time has come to become one voice united against

Walk On By. suicide, triggers, one perspective from a manic depressive

Twelve years and however many months, I sat across from the very together, all business woman shrink, who handed me a ‘life sentence.’ I looked at my mother, and burst into tears. No, no, no please god. I could not believe it, yet I already knew. Hallucinations, ghosts, talking way too fast, dancing in Radio Shack (mortifying), writing furiously on stacks and stacks of paper on a cardboard box. Brain zaps, months with