To a flower I’ve known

The flower reaches for the light
breaks through the dirt and stands upright
holds her head high, continually grows
deep into the soil she sends her toes
she cares not about outward beauty
growing is her only duty
“I will reach the Sun one day
Growing is the only way”
Glittering in her drops of dew
This is how I think of you

On Co-writing

“Just write,” I said
but they looked at me with dread
before filling their cups with words
and then we poured
together our word-hoard
into something particularly absurd.

“Remember our goal,”
I cried to your hole from my hole,
“We can stitch it together later”
but this Frankenstein of ours
his face looks sour
and he’s got the eyes of a traitor.

Perhaps I’m too eager
to place the meager
words there on the page
but surely these words are proof — breath
ideas that’ve already been talked to death
like Lazarus returning to the stage.

– E

One Thought

Do you like my mask?
I told you not to ask
This is beauty, behold
No dear, this is gold
Shocking, have you heard the news?
No, I felt it in the pews
This is life! Enjoy it
I cannot for you destroy it
Shhh, listen to me
Why can’t you just let us be?
I’ve adapted, I’ve evolved
No friend, you’ve dissolved
Do not judge, we are the same
First remove your mask and feel no shame
What you think, it matters not
You err dear friend, we are one thought


the place I go to be
to put it simply, to be me
There’s no forced smiles and
no forced laughs
no cut-out, stitched-up human crafts
Judge me harshly
if you will
choke on your own remedial pill
But grant me this,
let me seclude
to my familiar solitude

Sonnet I.

The moon, a pin on the night’s oily wing,
will smile — sunlike — as it braves endless night,
halfway there, a thumb, not a toenail — ring
nor crescent, but a king in his own right.
But what king ties himself to agony
or looks too closely at God and is blind?
Reflective surface — mirror Domini
your face is too bright now for one to find
the carvings that boldly adorned your head
markings that show where there once laid a crown
too worn — a thorn — where many men have tread
hanging in endless night — oh take him down!
Put the moon in a box with other lies
Hope alone rests in this: the sun will rise.


– E

How Often Turns Into Dream

She stared at the setting sun. It was like a beach ball at day break, all bright and round and red. Sometimes hard to tell if it was rising or setting.

“Help,” she said quietly, almost to herself, or to the setting sun. What would have helped at that moment was a broom, she decided. She could ride off into the sunset and ask the sun herself.

She had transformed since her last visit to the shore. More crabby. She wanted to belong on that beach. She knelt beside a particularly slow and grumpy looking crab.

“It’s nighttime,” he said.

“Not yet,” she said.

“It will be,” he said, ever the pessimist. “I’m a realist.”

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