The Pledge

I will surround myself with beautiful things, paint every moment pastel.
I will choose to see the sunlight, to rest in the shadows, and always lean into the wind.
I will hold hands with hope and laughter. I will dance in the rain, believing tomorrow is greater than today.

The Tree - A Poem

She drove a nail into his heart and buried it deep. Though the pain was crippling, he didn't cry out. He embraced it. Grew in spite of it. Determined to survive, become his tallest, stretch his furthest. To age and have someone admire his strength And die one day on his own terms, greater than he'd ever been.

My Place: An Ode To The Healthy Introvert

I find my happiness in the mundane, in the same-old, same-old. I see my life as a straight line, devoid of dips and valleys, but also heights or mountain tops. I don't want to fall or fly. I define boring.

I'm organization, keep-to-the-schedule. Never early. Never late. I am dependable, faithful. The gears that keep progress turning. While some soar or climb, taking a circuitous, scenic route. I am the highway that enables them to get there. Usually misunderstood but satisfied with my existence in the box I have made my home.

I like these walls. Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t have regret. Don’t shake your head and say, “If only she got out more.” Don’t worry over me or have any deep concerns. I am not unhappy in this space. Nor unsettled. Nor unsatisfied. I’m not gazing out the windows, longing for something that hasn’t been. For someplace I cannot go.

I have found my place.

I don’t need to dress up to enter or have to act a certain way while I’m inside. This is me. I lack o…

Live Again

He shuffled his feet, the heels of a worn pair of Brogans scattering tiny pebbles of asphalt toward the curb where they lay amongst the remains of a half-dozen cigarettes; a crushed beer can, the tab pointed outward; a woman’s earring, pearlescent, out-of-place; and a used condom. He’d known such pleasures once, young, ripe flesh eager for his touch, and him, thinking of nothing but the hum in his head, the sting in his loins. Of soft, warm, moist places, hidden by lacy underthings and how very sweet they’d be on the tip of his tongue.

That was long ago, eons it felt like. Before the war. Before years of smoke and blood, of the entrails of good men spilled out on abandoned ground. Before starvation, his stomach consuming itself. Before the accusing faces of family members who’d thought he could live again, smile again, pretend that all those vacant eyes weren’t continually staring upward, pupils glazed, mouths agape, empty, vacuous lungs bereft of the very oxygen that forced him to s…