A color poem…


the colors i feel on days like these

prove i should be alive.

the air is purple around me,

green static and yellows flash –

it is all real, hovering beyond

the point where you can see.

but in my cartoon world

the colors are brighter than

you ever made with a box of crayons –

my reds are filled in

with brushes.

i don’t expect you to understand,

and, anyway, if you did you

could steal my secret.

it is enough for you to know

i enjoy the colors of every day

enough for all of us –

just in case someone misses

the way the blue sky feels

upon their skin.

i spread the sunshine on

to anyone who will have it

so we can carry

on the color –

the world deserves to know.



nana has been sending a lot of birds these days,

and i’m sure it’s because she knows i need them.

it’s always unexpected, though i should

expect them by now, they cross my path

when my mind is blank.

i don’t believe the dead are watching us –

i’m sure they have better things to do

but i know that nana still sends me love,

and i know that sometimes love is

what i need to keep myself in this world.

red wings flit and flutter in front

of my car as i drive to work,

to meet friends, to run my errands –

it doesn’t matter what i’m doing –

it is springtime and

they are there and i feel like

i’ve gotten a hug from 20 years ago.


if you want to bring me flowers

be careful what you choose,

i can’t handle it when

they smell like a funeral.

maybe it comes from seeing

too many too early,

or maybe i’m just

too soft, sensitive,


easily injured, simply saddened.

i do my best to

hide behind daisies

and keep the smile strong

but sometimes the scent

seeps in.

this i know –

moments stick in my brain

like photographs

scattered in a scrapbook

glued among glitter by my own hand,

locked away by

smells or songs or

sensation – sentiments are strong.

sadness lives in

hidden pods within my brain,

pods that pop at

the strangest times,

releasing tears and wounds and blood and

memories held close.

i am sometimes strong enough

to handle them,

the waves wash me away

and my psyche is cleaned, cleared

by the release of my

toxic humors.


the distant hum

of the highway lullaby is

the song that sings in the

back of my brain,

the tune that plays

behind my dreams.

passing trucks lull me to sleep

like they always have,

from some not so distant road

sometimes blocked by soundproof walls.

this is my natural habitat.

i have noise in my head and

motor oil in my nails,

pollution in my lungs

and city skylines on my skin.

i know too much

yet nothing at all,

and the times when the world makes sense

seem arbitrary.

but i can take it on,

i’m made from tougher stuff

than you can see –

and my skin is thick with scars.

the passing trucks

carry fear away

into the distant night,

and i exhale.

leaving utah

i look at the hell

and watch the tears,

i hold your hand and stroke your hair

as any sister deserves.

these are the times that

try our souls

and let us pull out

who we know we should be.

there were wrongs,

there were rights

and watching it all collapse in rubble

feels like autumn news.

things fall apart,

but we scar and grow stronger

and sit here and wonder

when things will change.

and you find her

exactly when you need her –

she is strong and

she is angry,

she will take you

where you need to go.


when the syrup soothes me on nights like these

the spirit moves moves me, through me

and i feel like someone else.

we have the memory of nights like these

when the moon was brighter and

air never held the weight of the world but

we held the lights

and the potential

we were the dreams and the words and the life,

we were all we ever needed.


i keep track of these days

by the pills that i swallow

to delay my future,

to hold back the things that should come.

the days go by slowly but take forever,

the only agenda is one i set  –

my goals are simple, self-imposed,

responsible and mundane.

i have visions of doing as i please

in this hot summer sun –

i picture a better me

dipping my toes in the writer’s pond,

seeking my answers where he found his,

leaving rocks upon the ruins of his cabin.

nobody ever said that any of this

would make sense,

would be easy –

i recall the opposite advice.

i hear my father’s words echoing

from the stove of his tiny kitchen

as many miles away as years,

all i can do is stay true to myself.

and my youth slips away to be wasted on those younger

as the universe intends, implies, imposes.

waiting, coping, holding on,

i pound the beliefs of others

into my aching head,

into my buried soul,

wishing i could believe in me

like they do,

wishing i had the eyes of those who love me,

because they see something real

between the words.

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