Good Consideration

She will sell houses to happy
couples to new
families to first
beginnings. She studies to make others
happy and help them start their own
lives. She will accept valuable consideration in her
contracts. In the meeting of minds she will have sellers and
buyers sign on the dotted line. But what she really yearns for is
good consideration. A promise that can’t be measured in terms
of counted money. Much rather, love and affection. Not just anyone can
sign on her dotted line. She gave the pen to him and he started
with the first few curves in the first letters of his name. The pen is still laying on the desk, the line is partially written on. She just needs the payment.

We Built a Home

If it wasn’t for her, this house would probably rot;
this house that has been made into a home. A home
that has been abandoned by you. Abandoned
arms that have been left open, the pillows falling
apart at the seams. We laughed and bickered that there
are too many pillows. But yet, there was no enough comfort to keep
you here. No amount of pictures to suffice the happy memories that you
have wanted to erase and leave behind. No amount of writing kept in
to revisit past conversations that mean worlds to her.
She lights up the rooms with “twinkles” just to keep the darkness
out of her head and light the way home to her.
She sprays the air with the scents that bring you home to her nose and keep you in her flashbacks of true time.
This home is rotting and you have the hammer and nails to fix it. There are holes in the ground
of her heart. There are rips in the
pieces of her soul. This house, this home
can still be a home. Will you come
home to her or will you
abandon this house we built with our hands and our hearts in the foundation?

Don’t Be True

I swear this is all a nightmare.
I know what I’ve seen and experienced and none of it adds up.
I keep hearing all these things and I want to deny all of it.
It’s a sham, it’s rumors, it’s lies.
Let’s just sweep it under the rug because that’s not the person I know.
I can’t take this reality that keeps coming crashing down on me.
It’s not fair.
I want to wake up in the morning and it all be back to normal.
All of it should be a lie.
All of it can’t be true.
Please don’t be true.
Don’t be true.
Be true to me.

Where’s My Knight?

You were my knight in shining armor…
Now who will help me slay my dragons and ward off evil robbers of my life,
robbing me of love and value?
Who will rescue me of my fears and tell me to jump across the lava of deceit flowing through my life?
Who will pick me up after I’ve tripped and fallen down from my evening gown of failure?
Who will slice the heads off the other men that try and steal me away from my successes?
Who will teach me to punch and defend myself when my knight is away temporarily on another journey?
Who will hold my hand when I
you no longer being here?…

Bluebeard’s Dead Little Dancer

I lay in your bed nightly, haunting your sleep as you feel

my breath forever with you.

Never to have another woman in your bed,

a tale that has been reversed

you have prevailed.

You admired my dances, from the audiences you awed, clapped and watched.

Capturing me with your heart I was yours forever to keep.

My feet

always moving for you.

Your bloody chamber, your gallery closet with the key you gave.

I was not to open your past and the things I have been told,

I was not to trust what others were to say, they

were the keys dangling before me.

You gave me all the other keys, the things

for me to trust.

The clinking of voices was the curiosity that lead me to your locked door.

I snuck in hoping you wouldn’t notice.

I had to know what it was that you kept from me.

The jangling of the voices telling me to hack and see.

My inner death was the loss of you.

My real death was the passing

of time that you still long for.

I linger and hang around

hoping you will notice my presence.

Hoping you call out to me, the moment

you call back

I can return from my grave of silence

and dance

for my Bluebeard

and change our ending.



I wear many hats
and one I shared with you.
We tossed it back and forth to balance
on our heads like adults do.
I even stole it from you, many times I know
you said “baby you could wear my hat
just make sure you give it back”
I let you pull my hair and put it up
figuring that it would fit better under
our hat.

Learning to Drive

Fingers wrapped around the stick shift, he grabbed my fingers and interlaced them with mine
on top of the hard ball at the top of the stick.
Listen to the car and feel
the vibration as it pushes and pulls you.
You’ll know when to give it up
And switch the gear…

Beware of Writers

Beware of writers. We don’t ask your permission, we just put pen to paper
tips to keyboards and
scribbles to scraps lying around.
We tell the truth- We lie- We exaggerate- We expose- We bury
No matter what you say can be used in a “court of paper”
It can be published for all the world to see.
Your every flaw can be turned into mountains of disgust or
your every perfect quality admired can be turned into something angelic and worshipped.
Watch what you say and do around a writer because
every snippet of your personality can become a reality on a page that you either want to frame or
burn until the wind scatters the ashes far from the readers eye.
We aim to please and to infuriate- We aim to bring awareness and cry out- We aim to expose and exemplify- We aim for someone to click or turn the page-We aim for you

Read me

Tea Mornings

“Baby wake up”
“If you wake up I’ll make you breakfast”
and finally a little stir. A grunt and a stretch and a wipe of the eyes,
I get a squint and a half smile that seems to echo the words of good morning without actually saying them. I kiss his cheek
in an effort to not disturb him too much,
give him the opportunity to stretch and yawn himself awake. “What
do you want for breakfast?” “Coffee or tea?”
A sly grin and that little hype in his voice I get “tea” for an answer and it’s in these moments
that I feel the warmth in my heart. As I shuffle off to make tea in a cup of my choosing
a few yawns and some whiffs of the brewing chai, I make
my way back to a white sheeted bed and the man of my dreams curled up in my sheets still half asleep. Taking in
the postcard in front of me
I dodder up to the bed “can you still up for me please?” and I present the steaming mug on top of his chest and into his capable hands.
Curled up next to him with a complimentary mug of my own, I get to
bask in the simplicty of a cup of tea in a bed with the right person and sun streaming through the slant of closed blinds and fluffy bed sheets.

Tater Tot Toes

I was freezing and my toes turned into frozen tater tots. I remember
nuzzling up to his furnace of a body telling him
in a whimper “I’m cold.”
No shirt, clean shaved chest
and sleepy, benevolent voice he told me “then put your feet under me love” as he adjusted his legs
to overlap my tiny toned calves. I never expected this answer. I seemed to wiggle my narrow size sixes into the fur of his muscular legs
as I tried not to shiver.
But as my teeth clattered and I continued to tremble, he told me to put on a shirt. I settled
into picking out my favorite, soft pajama pants that he chuckled at and
curled up into him and his arms
to use him as my own human shirt and protection from the rooms shadows to engulf us in dream world.