Invariably a mess

My jeans with merry stains

Happy smudges on my brow

Colorful dirt beneath my nails.

Which is the paint water?

Which is my tea?

I can’t remember.


It’s 2:30 AM

That’s when it comes to me


A silent explosion.

Forming the ashes into images

Bare feet on cold, wooden, floors.

I find no comfort in my bed

Sketches in a haphazard pile,

paint in my braid.

My hands opalescent,

the skin cracked and dry.


I love the moon,

She watches me sculpt

as fluorescent lights buzz.

This is the night life.

Darkness closed in around my home;

a gentle hug,

While I shape, bend, cut, and mold.

Not lonely,

Just alone.


I am the deity

of my own universe.

Mine to write and build

My place of power.

I am.


They are mine

Then they fly away

Birds catching the winds

They no longer belong to me

Leaving my body behind

But taking a small piece of me with them.

Will they stand the tests of time?

Not my place to say.

I am only the criminal, not the crime.


They may stand still

Like trees in the bitter midwinter,

yet they still reach out.


Tea in a chipped blue mug

Pinks of first light

A new illumination

On the work I have done

New to the world,


The sun is rising.