poetry, power, psychic poetry


Bring me to my tribe,
where first looks turn into starry eyes,
of the cosmic similarities
We share inside.

I have let the heat of my difference go untouched;
in fear that the warmth of who I am is too much.

It feels like protecting yourself
when your arms are lopped off.
Like the sculpture of Venus de Milo,
you continue to stand bravely,
Taking every verbal cut and scoff.

I don’t want this wear
to mold me into someone
I am not.
Bring me to my tribe,
enough I have fought.


poetry, power, psychic poetry

The Concord

The concord of thoughts swell my head into a fusion of sensory suffocation.

Pop; goes those aware.


ouch, poetry, psychic poetry

More Than Our Sum

Death is forcing yourself to love the thing that everyone enjoys taking for you.

Compliments on your work comfort you enough to convince yourself that, “this isyour calling.”

But your inner child screams, “this is only a fraction of what I am capable of.”

And your conditioned self continues to respond, “Are you sure?”


ouch, poetry, psychic poetry

Crawl In

I crawl in.

My body is elastic puddy; unable to coalesce.

No amount of interaction is able to change the make-up of my mind.
I am not fond of stillness either.

I tell myself that the lack I feel inside won’t last forever.
And while it is there to do what I can to buffer it.

True as the advice is, I hate it.

But not enough that rage replenishes the space devoid of action.
Not enough to convince me that stillness is better.

Resigned, I crawl in.
And let, rather than do.


ouch, poetry, psychic poetry

Grasping for Ashes

It sucks when the memory of the last person you were with, which was the strongest thought to get you off, has begun to loose its potency.

The skeleton I have of him in my mind continues to deteriorate, making me feel like I am grasping for ashes to feel flames.

Pity, that the limitations of proximity make fuel hard to come by.

And the resources I have here, well, I’d rather watch superficial porn than fill myself with someone I don’t desire.


ouch, poetry, psychic poetry

Going through the motions: steps and stops

I need to leave for a while.

To come undone and take a breath in presence.

Something more present than this myriad of steps and stops.

Going through the motions,
The movements of what looks like content, but feels like absent acts.

I’ll go away for a while.

And if I return, I’ll always wonder if this time I’ll stay content a little longer than the last.