a necessity of mine

It is when I
Stop writing that
Things get hard.
I write
Because I have to
Because if I didn’t
I would be a wounded
Bird
Hobbling through
The city
On the sidewalk
Between the legs
Of people who
Could care less
About my words
And which way
I organize sentences
They would notice
My small black feathers
And be transported to a
Time when animals were
Worshipped
Held above the human
Head in totem polls
Representing the true
Spirit of humbleness
A crow will eat a berry off
The tree of knowledge
Today
And I will
Write.

is anyone home?

Knock knock knock
On the door to my liver
The alcohol asks
If I need a ride tonight
And I reply with a
Sloppy, wet, “yes,
I would love a ride,
Take me as far from
Here and there
As you possibly can.
But please, have me back
By sun-up.”

So the bottle goes head
Over heels
For my throat
Dripping down
The cave of my chest
Landing in a puddle
Of more alcohol
And a little
blood

love illness

Illness to me
Implies a weakness of the self
But a beautiful, submissive
Weakness
That says
Okay dear virus
Tie my hands to the bed
And take me over
Wear me out
With all your symptoms
Make me so sick this time
That when I crawl out of this tunnel
I will see the light with new hope
As if looking into the eyes of a freshly
Born baby

Make me so frail
And fragile
That even a whisper
Could tear my flesh

I’ve been scratched by the claws
Of sickness and survived
But
Love makes me feel anemic
I’m searching desperately
For a cure