In pieces.

I’ve been writing little…tidbits of things almost every day for a couple of weeks now. I figured I might post a few of them, if I felt like they were worth sharing. Here is one from a few days ago.


I want to drop a plate

in the middle of the tiled floor

to let you know that I feel

just as shattered, just as broken.

I think I would take pleasure

in seeing myself in its shards,

but I can’t be bothered to pick up the pieces.



A little rhyming poem.

(Goodness, is it June already? I really need to start posting here again! I’ve made some crafts that I need to share as well, but in the meantime, have a little poem! I wrote this for my boyfriend, because he likes poems that rhyme.)

With her pen, she began to write,

Late, late into the night.

She wrote of things that caused her fright,

She wrote of things that made her spite,

But when she finally turned off the light,

She dreamt of things that gave her might.


It’s been a little over a year

Since the boys in blue caused his death.

At 25, he had barely started living

And maybe his past wasn’t perfect

But whose is?


Freddie’s death was unnecessary.

There is no place for ‘rough rides’

Or abuses of power.

Protocol is not a choice,

But police brutality is.


It’s been a little less than a year

Since violence erupted

In the streets of Charm City

And we saw how anger corrupts

Even the best of people.


Freddie’s death was a catalyst,

A wake-up call, an anthem.

He showed that our society

Is more broken  

Than the body he spent his last hours in.


© 2016

(I’m not completely happy with this, but I felt it best to post today due to the events it references. Timeliness and all that. Written as a challenge based on this post but also because I’ve been thinking about this lately and wanted to say something about it.) 

The Appeal of Good Writing.

(I was thinking about good writing and this strange little poem thought itself into existence.)


I am turned on by letters mingling on a page

Forming words that evoke images

Or ideas.


I am excited by the way a writer arranges their words

With care and precision

And purpose.


If they strip down to their bare selves

Exposing their truths,

I am ecstatic.


I aspire to be like them,

To take a reader’s breath away

In a moment of pure delight.

© 2016

My first spoken-word poem.

Note: I wrote this a few months ago for a talent showcase. After listening to many spoken-word poems, this was my first foray into the genre. Obviously, it is not perfect, and I may be making changes to it in the future or making it longer, but I am very proud of it!

Deep breaths, solid ground

Heart slowing its pound

My eyes will not leak tears laced with burning-hot failure

This time.

I will be strong

I will prove you wrong

As soon as I build up my defenses I will hide

So far inside myself that your disapproval will never find me.

If I cry, I let you win.

This is why I never let you in!

If I knew how not to crumble

Like a sandcastle besieged by water,

I would man my fortress

Because, yes,

My being is a castle in need of protection.

I wish I knew how to defend myself from the insults

That pierce the walls I am still building

Or rebuilding, for that matter

Instead I watch the pieces shatter.

The floor is littered with shards of my pride

But despair is not a helpful adhesive.

If I could only be strong

Take the barbs as they come

I am more fragile than society demands

My power is in my hands

And I can’t shield it from the condemnation for long.

So as another battle ends

I stand as tall as I can and

Brace myself for the aftermath

And hope that next time

I will be war-ready

And I will hold fast

And the floor will not be such a mess anymore.