I write in cryptic codes,

I could be straight,

But I know

You’ll draw

Your own conclusions,

Either way.

I’ll have those honest


Heart to heart

But I’m not ready yet

To be an open book.

Cover of hieroglyphic scars,

I don’t mind if you find

Me five-thousand years

From now and figure me out.

I’m not obligated in this

Lifetime or any others to translate

The treasury of my dreams

For any passerby.

I don’t take anything at face value,

I calculate in facets.

We jewels show so many sides

For the sun to shine from,

Lighting each other up

From the inside.

I’ve been down and out

But don’t need to linger there.

I could write all my poems

From the hell of hungry

Sleeping on rooftops

Or doorways

To get out of the rain,

Subsisting on coffee,

Whiskey, words, and weed

For a week at a time.

The world loves a weak woman

With a thigh gap

And rib bones to count on,

But that’s in the past.

I wrote enough poems

About who I was back then.

I’m here now.

I’ve seen and done things

I don’t care to recall much

At the moment.

Might make me more


To those looking for a fix,

The pain-body junkies,

But I’m keeping my chin up,

Eyes on the skies prize.

Tune in and self-actualize.

On Tradition

Aus Gott wird man gebor'n, in Christo stirbet man. //////////////// Und in dem heil'gen Geist fängt man zu leben an.


"If you're not living on the edge, you're taking up too much space." - anonymous




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