The Heartbeat of me

Sometimes, when you look at me and I don’t expect it, my heart is like one of those scenes in those movies where the helicopter is coming in to land, and it keeps getting louder and and louder and louder.
And, when you finally see it, it’s growing louder still,
And the characters are trying to talk to each other and one goes,
And the other has to repeat themselves,
But they still didn’t quite hear,
Because it’s so loud,
So, again,
And the other gestures or uses something to make their point known.
And finally they get it and it seems like that little bit of the scene took a while,

But that damn helicopter was so loud.

The girl

You are the air between our kisses, the sound that breaks free right before I laugh, the one little hair that keeps falling just inside my vision.

You are without a doubt one of the very things that make me, me. 


I used to sit on the back porch steps of my parents house smoking cigarettes.

It’s sort of sad, thinking back, how I held on to the last thing I so desperately wanted to kill me.

I passed a man downtown the other day who asked for a light.

I obliged, and I watched him walk away as he smoked his cigarette, his poison.

I even gave him my lighter.

Afterwards, I walked around to the little thrift store that Kayla likes to venture about.

I’d seen a typewriter inside a few weeks ago in the front window, but they’d rearranged the store for Christmas and the type was nowhere in my sight.

I ripped a page from my journal to scribble my interest in the piece of metal and slipped it through a crack in the door.
eCity Java was next on my mind, so I teetered along the sidewalk to my favorite little coffee shop and reminisced on fond memories I shared there with Ol’ Kale.

I ordered, like I always do, a dirty hippie, which is pretty much just a fancy chai latte.

After some time, when I’d been handed my coffee, I sat down on the old, red couch to try and work out some writer’s block.

And there I was. Again. Stuck.

I hope to one day write a story of my life, not that anyone other than friends or family would care to read it, or because I feel it to be unique, but because I want myself out there.

I want the world to know my name, and I’m no longer afraid of that. 

Save for Christmas

“Look at the lights,” she exclaimed.
One by one they came on,
House after house.
The view from the hill was breathtaking,
And it began to snow again.
It was still so very early;
The moon lit up the snowflakes like little stars.
“Can we build a snowman,” you beckoned.
“Of course we can,” I said,
“Here, I got you something.”
“What is it?”
“Open it.” 
I watched you carefully unwrap what I carefully wrapped for you.
“There’s nothing here.”
“It’s a promise,” I say,
“One that I will keep.”
You stare at me long enough for a bit of snow to hold your hand,
And a single tear struggles to flow down your left cheek.

“Merry Christmas, Little Goose.”


Every mother deserves the warmth of her child,
For all the months she carried,
For all the years that she provided,
For all the tears that she shed.

Every mother deserves the light of her child,
For every sleepless night,
For every bed time story,
For every time she cut the crust on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I promise to use my light.

I promise, like a candle from your womb,
I will spread through the world like wildfire,
Touching everything in my path,
And filling the eyes of the heart and mind with joy and laughter
Until my light burns out.

Even though one day my light will be gone,
The people that it shown upon shall remain,
And in that I live forever –

All because of you.

So I shine on.

Merry Christmas, mom.

Dear Girl

I will be the stars if you promise to be the moon,

Reflecting light into the darkness,

Pulling oceans back out to sea

On worlds so far, perhaps unseen.

On harps, I’ll place the strings of time

And play a song that never ends,

As you pass through space and round again.