Reflecting on My Metaphor

i am a typewriter and someone else is pressing the keys

i am a match that won’t light

i am yarn, frayed and unraveling

i am glue that never dries

i am words written backwards

i am a stone that can’t skip

i am lukewarm coffee

i am a pen out of ink

i am an empty spool of thread

i am a threadbare sweater

i am a left sock without a right

i am a flower, always wilting

i am written in an unspoken language

i am all consonants and no vowels

i am a broken vase, not yet mended with gold

i am a butterfly with broken wings

i am an owl without voice

i am loaded scales with no counter weights

Lines from Starbucks/081211?

Lines from Starbucks:

Power lines and poetics,
portables and pathetics.
Love and round tables,
luggage and brown stables.
Daisies and good times,
deer and pantomimes.
Paper napkins and spoons,
petals and blue moons.
Confetti and breaking waves,
cries and silent graves.
Romance and Fall classes,
red and sunglasses.
Wood and makeshift stories,
wonderings and false glories.

If we were having coffee… (Everyday Inspiration, Day 11)

If we were having coffee, you might notice
that I am distant. I feel lost.

If we were having coffee, I’d tell you
that I took a step towards ruining a friendship.

If we were having coffee, you’d see
that I really do want him to stick around.

If we were having coffee, I might tell you
how confused I sometimes feel.

If we were having coffee, I’d wonder
what you would say about my life.

The Space to Write (Everyday Inspiration, Day 6)

I usually end up posting to here from the far left of my parents’ ’90s floral print couch that came from a yard sale 2 years ago for 10 bucks. But sometimes from the Starbucks a block away from school. And sometimes from my bed, if it’s after midnight usually.

But where do I write? I write everywhere, I am always “writing” in my heart and in my head, I physically scribble down thoughts whenever I get the chance no matter where I am. I spend a lot of time on the bus, so a lot has been written on buses and at bus stops. I write in class when I’m not paying attention to the instructor. I’ve even written poems in church, not because the pastor wasn’t doing a good job, but because he WAS doing a fantastic job and it inspired words in me. I like coffee, so I spend time in coffee shops, so I do end up writing in coffee shops. Occasionally my poems are inspired by my surroundings, like this one that I wrote about six months ago while sitting in Starbucks, called Poetry is like Breathing.

If I had a dedicated writing space, it would be a comfy chair surrounded by bookshelves packed full of books and a stack of comfy blankets and pillows within arms reach. I’d also have a coffee maker in the room and a fridge stocked with French vanilla creamer and string cheese.


and the crows who walked away from the corners of my eyes, they could no longer nest in my bottom eyelashes, too obscured by the egg-shaped tears that had rolled down the sides of my German nose. they had leaked from the ocean-blue wells, where the crows had flown from the blackness we all have in common – pupils all the same color, even if our souls are not.

and the caffeinated ants, who walked into my coffee, not knowing they would dive to the depths only to find their deaths at the bottom of the vanilla that didn’t really come from France and the coffee created by brothers who might have come from hills, but more likely their last name was just Hill, the coffee that was brewed by my mom two or three days ago in an old-fashioned pot on a stove that she has to light with a match – the pilot left in a jet, too lazy to leave a forwarding address.


thru my lense: Bliss


Poems, beats, caffeine.

mid-morning, midday, or midnight
a warm hug of words
a fire lit in my heart
smooth liquid to fill my belly

my belly that still squishes a little
two babies and not enough sit-ups
too busy cleaning up spit-up
but i like it like that, soft

a book full of words
written by old dead guys
probably a few chicks too
mostly words i’ve never heard

songs i can’t help but sing
dancing on the couch
in the middle of the night
while everyone else sleeps

If we were having coffee… 043016

If we were having coffee,
I’d tell you I drink too much.
Coffee, that is.

If we were having coffee,
mine would have French Vanilla in it.
How about yours?

If we were having coffee,
I’d probably be complaining
about my Sociology teacher.

If we were having coffee,
this might be the last time
because you’re bored with me.

If we were having coffee,
you’d notice my self-doubt
and maybe reassure me.