the end

we shared, we accomplished our mission.

we exhaled, we scoped out the competition.

with a reward in my hand, a popped bottle of champagne.

chewing on my old thoughts, my future, and some romaine.



things come for those who wait.

I’ve have waited,

so “those” are coming.


as i read my poems about you i realize.


it wasn’t love,

it was a cry for help. that you chose to ignore.


can’t get mad at you,

i was the only one that heard myself screaming.





Ifs, Ands, Maybes

i am sick of “ifs ands or maybes”

the possiblys and kindas rolling off the jokers tongue.

i am more than just a “eh, well i guess” or “we’ll see.”




left here on my toes a while ago, planting thorns on my running shoes.

i am more than a “if”

i am a definite.

prettier than a “and”.

i am the one, the only.

more stronger than a “maybe”.

a “yes” is the exchange i’ll take.

don’t bounch my checkbook with these sorry transactions.

i am a “definitely”, a “absolutely”, a “will go right now” type of woman.

i only deliver promises. never indecisive thoughts of “ifs ands or maybes”

i deserve better and i will get it.

After (old poetry)

once again,

i was colored stupid.

my rose glasses was shading the


that was your true blue.

i wasn’t prepared for the crash but recovered quickly because i saw it all happen yesterday on black with a splash of


do i still think of you?


its like a child remembering their first thunderstorm.

thier first moment they knew they were scared of the dark.

it was there all along but it maximize in size.

i’m at the aftermath.

i missed the action, the


you gave me. my first stop sign.

yet a part of me still misses the


toothy grin off your lying face.

A year later (old poetry)

I put your hands around my neck and waited for you to squeeze and when you did, I was the scared one.

I waited for you to catch on fire like i did for you but i knew you were water. you turned into steam and disappeared. as i scorched to ashes.

even as i write this and remember, i REALIZE the oversimplification of the fact that,








i’m just thanking the gods now for not dying in the arms of a heartless saint.

‘Noted’ (old poetry)

it’s raining.

my eyes glued to the window, i need them for writing though.

my book is full of stories i’ve yet to read. i just need to finish them.

i write better when i’m in Love. Infatuation, if you will.

still raining. it’s nice out though.

my chicken scratch makes chickens scratch.

i hate this damn job but job hopping is harder.

i wrote a sonnet in my head. too bad it’s not on paper.

this poem sucks ass. maybe i possibly suck ass.


rain is moody.

made a new playlist. already bored.

i’m bored.

i’m still not infatuated.

still raining. on my unwritten poems.

Kaboom (old poetry)

does it ever feel like no matter how hard, how often or how frequent you push, push, push, push, PUSH, you can never seem to get ANYWHERE?

square one. 1st base. the fucking beginning.

my castle isn’t made of cement, it’s SAND.

sometimes it feels like everyone is moving faster than you’ll ever be, speeding by you as you slightly contemplate whether or not you should or not.

like your legs are stone while the rubber bands bounce around you like broken snakes, achieving ‘something’.

sometimes it feels like i’m meant to stay in the same place. doing the same thing. for the rest of my life.


trying to find peace is like,

trying to find blue ketchup,

at walmart when all that is in stock,

is mustard and organic mayo when,

you clearly remember seeing it on the shelves,

when you were younger and carefree.

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