It covers our bones,
houses blood,
the atoms that design
who we are,
who we become.
It displays our pain
through scars,
and blotches.
We etch pictures
into our skin,
images that shout
This organ,
this living piece
of all we are,
advertises our hearts
to the world,
publicizes our individuality.
Skin hides us,
obscures vision
and understanding.
we crouch,
from the realities
that blind.
Shaking below
the thin skin
that encases
and blood
and bone
that shows
but also can’t help
but hide.

(Poem previously posted on my other blog under a different name, for those of you who have read this before.)


The Five Sides of a Student

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The Overachiever

Study, study, read.

Eyes become sandpaper orbs.

Only A’s will do.  

The Underachiever

I’ll try if I must,

But I will sleep if I can.

As long as I pass.

The Lonely One

Sitting alone now,

and every day. Perhaps a

friendship in college?  

The Bullied One

Crying in the stall.

They laugh and tease and gouge small

holes in my armor.

The Bully

Mean jokes and small barbs

make my own pain disappear.

I’m sorry…I’m scarred.

Written in response to the Weekly Writing Challenge–5 Haikus

Swords and Flames

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Rusty chains

encircled the dilapidated gate.

He could see the slow

rise just beyond

the worn wooden fence.

Thick air

sat, heavy, on the dead grass.

His eyes met

the tree line,

standing tall,

soldiers at attention,

marching into foggy battle.

Over the hill,

fires burned to the sky,

tendrils of smoke

twisting through the trees,

suffocating life

in its fiery fist.

A runner arrived,

clothes tattered from

the journey,

bearing a message

from the high command.

All was not yet lost.

With downcast eyes,

he read–

the six nations were headed

up from the south.

The soldier looked

towards the horizon,


anticipating the imminent destruction

of his loyal brothers,

those men he had battled with,

who he sought to aid

in his quest for glory.

If they could hold out

for one more night,

their cargo would

be safe.

But the dawn

was a millennia away,

and he could see them

cresting the final hill,

only a few short miles

from the gate,

the rusty chain,

the dead and burning grass.

He could see the

firelight glinting off

their steely swords.

Snow clouds

banked the top of the ridge,

a backdrop for devastation.

The frigid air mixed

with the heat from

the flames that crept

closer and closer

to the battlefield.

The sky poured

a mix of icy mud

down the hill,

instantly freezing

to the horses’ feet,

the soldiers’ boots.

The battle was upon him.

He swung his sword,

slicing through

bone and flesh,

and he prayed to

survive the night.


Written in tandem with TheClocktowerSunset.

Can’t Give Up

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We can’t help them all,

but why shouldn’t we try?

I watch their faces

fill with joy

from a kind word said

or a line of


Hidden behind

masks of dirt,

of poverty,

of pain,

of neglect,

their lights shine

stronger than

a thousand candles

meant to bless them.


adult words,

harsh criticisms,

disbelief in themselves,

lies a force

more powerful than

the  sadness surrounding


What we say matters

more than we realize.

We are their guides

and we can’t stop

believing in their

amazing ability

to go on,

to adapt,

to grow.

What we say matters.

They need to know how

amazing they are,

how they have the

ability to change

the universe,

to be what no one

thought they could be.

If we give up,

so will they.


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I am waiting for the

sky to open,

for the cold to

erupt from the

unsuspecting earth.

It hovers in the


like a child eavsdropping

on a dark night.

It tiptoes out of

the high recesses

of the above

and settles quiet

on the world.

White blankets

of ice

wrap the earth

in frigid arms

and freeze the tears

that fall from

the dying all around.

It is beauty.

It is death.

The silence beckons

sounds that

won’t arrive until




Infinite as the

stars stretched out

into space.

We are endless,

our voices

screaming out

across the vastness

of the planet.

Melodies pour

from our calloused


they peck out

manuscripts made

from our flesh,

our bones,

our blood and heart

and pieces of

our broken souls.

We are infinite

as long as we

have words

to splatter onto

the empty page,

as long as our fingers

tingle at the thought

of fashioning a tale

or penning poetic


We are infinite,

as immortal as our

words make us.

If I no longer have


I will write on the walls,

on my skin,

on the dirty earth.

If ink runs from my pens,

I will write in my

own blood.

As long as I write,

I am infinite.