she walks alone

she wanders alone down gritty streets
paved in the good intentions of her idealism.

these roads, marred with the holes of remorse
for all her failed attempts at living,
have led her,
in stumbling,
broken paced fashion,
to the realization that her life has
been a series of ineffective day trips.

she never had a destination in mind,
only bumbled along on a journey marked
simply by the passage of time,
and the graying of her hair.


--bruised orange

abandon

you would chase ghosts down a narrow corridor
seeking absolution from your own regrets.

don't think for a minute you'll find your answers there.
the love unfolds at whatever pace you are willing to set.

joy is reserved for the heart that forgives the past,
and beats itself wildly into the future.


--bruised orange

machete

before it is too late,
i want to speak to you from the tender places inside,
from my quiet islands that sing the lonely breezes when the moon shines in her fullness.

but, oh, these tangled vines of my interior keep me strangled in silence.

how can i break free, when my voice is stifled by these twisted branches of my past,
and my hands are bound by the overgrowth of too many neglected years?

i want to cut them out, to be free from their grasp,
to cultivate a new garden upon the fertile soil of these fallow fields.


--bruised orange

just the thing

the lines that fall apart and end up in the trash
are part of this poet's repertoire as well. perhaps,
if i brought them out and sang songs to them they
would feel loved enough to complete themselves.

i want to be more than incomplete. i want to begin
at the beginning, and run on through to the end, in
satisfaction.

but sometimes, it is within the spaces, within the stops
and starts and crumpled paper disappointments that we
find the very thing that we need to be at peace.


--bruised orange

have courage, dear heart

and the moon came down from the sky
long enough to listen to your story.

did you remember to give voice to your dreams?
were you brave enough to speak them aloud?


--bruised orange

"Write", she says.

"I have nothing to say", I answer.

But, of course, it is a lie. I have plenty to say.
It is a matter of staying hidden.

Sometimes, I want to be invisible.

"Don't look at me", I say, "Just see me."

I am the invisible substance of subconscious,
and I want nothing more than to be found.


--bruised orange