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Literature Text
Broken.
Why do you bother with me?
I know all I am is annoying to you.
So why?
Every time I get hurt you
just shake your head at me.
“little girl, when will you learn?”
I may be a little girl, but I feel like I have
The weight of the world on my shoulders.
No “little girl” should feel that way.
It’s not right.
But what if we do?
I’ve fallen so many times that
I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again.
I’m too broken to be fixed.
So stop trying to fix me!
Why do you bother with me?
I know all I am is annoying to you.
So why?
Every time I get hurt you
just shake your head at me.
“little girl, when will you learn?”
I may be a little girl, but I feel like I have
The weight of the world on my shoulders.
No “little girl” should feel that way.
It’s not right.
But what if we do?
I’ve fallen so many times that
I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again.
I’m too broken to be fixed.
So stop trying to fix me!
Literature
Briar Rose
Briar Rose
Was it only curiosity that moved him
Beyond the dense dark thickets
The impenetrable overgrowth of roses
Held motionless in their various stages
Of blossoming and decay
Or was there more
Urging him towards the evidence
Of time dividing his world
From the legend contained
And when he finally saw her
Still
Among the dozing riches
Somnolent and dumb
The scene must have resembled a mausoleum
More than a fairy tale
It couldn't have been her beauty
That urged him on
To wake her with
The inscrutable choice of a kiss
He had to have stumbled into this twisted
Somniferous tale
With some kind of knowledge
Or at least th
Literature
Guest Worker
Guest Worker
I am clumsy with words,
Shifting them like heavy earthen vessels,
Unwieldy things whose numbers and circumferences
Exceed the breadth of my arms and quantity of hands
And whose sounds hit heavy
When they land,
Sometimes beautiful even when they’ve broken.
Reworking them in combinations
I have once heard spoken,
I’m not particularly successful
At keeping the cadence.
With words, I am in a foreign land.
Others seem as though expression
Is second nature to them,
But words are not
My first language.
Why does the unskilled worker like myself
Return to the world
Where uttered combinations
Resonate with
Literature
relics
relics
an unused airline ticket
the ticket stub from a concert played long ago
and the now worn out lyrics of a song
these things settle
into forgotten places
into the recesses of an untidy desk drawer
into the hidden compartment of a purse
or under the weighted location
between pages of an unread book
artifacts which alone do not speak
but which when unearthed
begin to tell a story
suggest a secret past…
they are the tattered remnants of longing
Suggested Collections
... 
meh.
story of my life.
meh. story of my life.
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