My Wretched Phone

You’re the one I gaze too, when mind is seeking light

You’re the glow beneath the covers, the company at night

Addicted to your charm, chiming when in need

Veinless with a pulse, you’re faced, yet never bleed

Your sheen detracts from mine, a foe that is a friend

Your soul holds no regard, yet your ear I seem to lend

Pocketed for safety, lonely yet not alone

Silenced, never muted, you are my wretched phone

Phone Girl by XAV-Drawordie
Phone Girl by XAV-Drawordie

Life isn’t Fair

Mind tinkers in verse and transforms into rhyme

My thinking coerced by two stanza lines

The rhythm of thoughts, a sullen progression

My metronomes ticking tunes of suppression

A blessing and curse is my mindful transverse

To live full of wonder, yet ponder the hearse

How death isn’t fair, so neither is life

Wealth finds the wicked as poor pays the price

Image: Poverty, by Niv24
Image: Poverty, by Niv24

Am I a Ma’am?

“Thank you Ma’am…”

When people call me “Ma’am,” I perform a searching pirouette to make sure they’re actually addressing me. It breaks my heart when the teenage cashier offers up an un-assumed status. Am I that old?

Ma’am is my mother.

Ma’am is the lady strolling down the street with three leashed Corgi’s obediently licking her polished heels. Ma’am is my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Barnes, who scolded disrespect like’s we’d just committed Larceny. Ma’am is the politician demanding your regard, even when their policy imprints utter abhorrence.

Ma’am is not me…is it? The high-bun donning, odd sock wearing, tie die spattered, Australian.

I feel like a fraud. An impostor in my 26-year-old shell. Take those words back would you? You now have me questioning my age and allotment in life’s monarchy. Thanks alot Sam. You curly haired, once friendly faced, CVS employee. It’s not like I was buying Menopause medication or reading glasses. I was purchasing Club Soda!!

My mind is running around life’s playground like a pre-pubescent teen, while real teens are commenting surreptitiously on our age gap. I’m wearing this adult veneer in trickery.  A mascarade of maturity is only assembled in hope that my not so subtile messages capture societies’ soul.

Am I really a Ma’am? You be the Judge.

Can I be your Window?

Would you see through me if I were made of glass?

Or would you shatter my clear veneer, splintering any chance of a window paned existence?

Would you let me sit…fracturing…refracting…deflecting our world?

The eternal light bender.

Please let me be your window. Don’t break me before I am lodged in that west facing panel of your home.

The sunset’s portal?

I can be the worldly explorer framing life.

I will take the brunt of societies wrath.

I will filter you images distorted by fraction and reflection.

Polished beauty.

A picture paned existence slightly more bearable than unfiltered reality.

Honesty will be mounted, scaffolding your allotment.

Glass stained with societies dye.

Can I be your window?

I would love to dwell beside the photo frames that paint your picture perfect life.

A window for your soul?

Image: Window to Your Soul by Karezoid
Image: Window to Your Soul  by Karezoid

Mirror Mirror

Mirror Mirror on the wall. Your awe ensnares the minds of all

Echoes spied reaps fickle minds, feelings caged are framed in time

Mirror Mirror on minds wall, who projected what I saw?

Your telling pitch reflects retorts, framing sheens berating thoughts

Mirror Mirror finds minds scrawl. What will this spy have in store?

So fare and white within life’s frame, your trust emaciates this dame

Image by Fatina Faina Anorexia
Image by Fatina Faina

No Rest for the Wicked

It is when I wake that my mind is full of dreams. The possibilities of tomorrow. The etchings of the moment. The pondering of the past. Rested by my future. Its limitless adventure.

“No rest for the wicked” jolts me awake and inscribes itself within art. No permission requested, yet this muse is never refused. If societies sins are denied by sleep, I inevitably reap from the cyclically suppressed.

The wickedness of life is where my slumbers reside. I give morsel of sleep to those who suffer at the hands of the wicked ones. My words carve their hardship. My etchings chisel away at the inhumanity of human nature. I happily forfeit rest for the wicked as it inevitably lay’s to rests with the suppressed.

Tick tock goes the clock, tip tap goes my nap

Sleep is reaped by wicked woes widening the gap

Death finds verse as I transverse my etchings on a screen

Slumbers wane as I proclaim for kids to meet their dreams

Nightmare by Mint Illusion
Nightmare by Mint Illusion

Please share any feedback. Would love to hear what keeps you up at night?

Ambivalence Turned Influence

Life on a whim. My rise and falls matching the occasions. Success and failure without accountability. I was just there.   A bystander to life. A witness to the despondency of my existence. I embodied ambivalence.


I found my heart could speak. I am a speaker

My sound harked for the weak. I am a teacher


The ground cracked under feet. I feel my power

Now my mind embarks on life’s feat. This is my hour

Hope is in each hour“Equip your lips with tactfulness to unshackle what resides

What keeps us up at night, producing pain when lips confide

Assemble with me, armed with words… to pierce a callused skin.

Corse coverings, now seeping… with solvents to your grin”

Mind to Unbind

I would love to hear your thoughts. Please feel free to comment, like, share or further peruse my mind.

My Family Home

My lips covet courting, yet their locked by a mind

A misconceptions of affection is the poison lacing time

It’s a tick without tocks, a broken carrousel

Merry rounds are running as bare backs dance to bells

I falter with the alter and the visions that I see

Bride and groom not tended to, within this nuptial dream

See.. I flutter with a smile and suppress with a thought

Find comfort in the pavement, cement prevents the caught

It’s the mind within the matter, yet I mind the passing shell

That merry round is broken on this empty carrouselgay_fairy_tale_by_kikalicia-d3bv5qu

Do you grasp my plight or do I baffle with this song

See… this ramble is my gamble to make women not seem wrong

Do you understand the dream imparted to the young

Man weds wife the nursery rhyme, persuasions seen and sung

The fiction of a fairy tale, holds fact in its revere

My course is filled with fantasy, yet my couplings cast as queer

The tales weathered time and scripts evaded age

A diction of contradiction to the feelings that I cage

My dream that tends to scare the most holds a face across my table

No prince is in this pudding, girl meets girl my featured fable

A ring revolves my finger, isle sole split within the crowd

It’s the love beneath the cloth that brands the parents proud

What if we skewed a fairy tale, amending girl meats boy?

Slant the stories start for the heart to make the choicelesbian-wedding-tux-and-dress-300

Read genders yours to render and not be met with scold

High-heeled shoes the platform to transform without a toll

What if love is found, when girls dress dolls that kiss?

Little boys are clashing trucks, while grasping hands instead of fists

There is revolution in the stories that pillow rested we are told

A sentence without sentence, editions for spines folds

An adaptation to the cast, love composes to the ear

The picture perfect unions that don’t manifest in fear

Can my carrousel be merry, and each tick be met by tocks?

Can I a feel the roundabouts that circulate this clock?

I’ll heal when reading bed time tales to the kids I call my own

Love will be the lullaby that attunes my family home

photo by Devin Bruce
photo by Devin Bruce

Please share thoughts, stories, love and joy. Assemble with me armed with words…

Times Abrasions

Tapping feet, strum the beat imprinted by a scene.

A solemn song sees soles despond, as mood and tunes convene.

Treble in delight, while bass embraces gloom

Feet stampede in melody, composing moment’s tune. 

Impatient pounds in song. Intolerance of time.

A line! A Light! Delays in flight! Impart the trudging chime. 

Tippy toes, tap chipper blows, in lively disposition.

A state translates to melody, matching life’s editions.

 Can’t we tap to counteract the mood upon occasion?

Make our chime? Not fall in line, with the tone from times abrasions?

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