He calls her his muse

Caresses her skin with his words

Claims her beauty facilitates his conception

Of the true essence of what will be

Paintbrush to his canvas of existence

Charcoal on the paper of his adulation

Of the contour of her cheek

Her silhouette when she removes her gown

Behind the veil of twilight

In the corner of his studio

Yet when the master lays down his implements

Of what he alleges is art

She sees his dream of her is nothing

But a barren sheet of unlined notebook paper

With but a smudge of color

And a dust of black

This inspiration he professes

Is but a cover for the emptiness

Of what he attempted to propagate

To win her love



I have yet to become

I am not finished

My artist has lovingly began to create

Painstakingly molded me

Touched me with his hands

Put his soul into my making

But he has not finished

What he started sits in fragments

Not quite whole

My wish to be entire, absolute

Lost in the depths of his creativity

Waiting for completion

Yearning for him to begin again

Dreaming of the day I come forth

Raise from his imagination into reality

Allowing his love for me to let me live

I shall exist

Be real

Be me


There are several ways to die.  Not one is the “right” way.  Drowning is said to be peaceful after the initial burning in your lungs and the terror at realizing you can’t breathe.  Or suicide.  Or accidental death.  Perhaps a good old fashioned aneurism. Too bad that for most death comes slowly and painfully. It creeps under the covers at the end of the bed and gives us bad dreams.  It causes our hair to fall out, our skin to become paper thin and fragile.  It makes us crap our pants and lose our ability to walk.  It causes others to talk to us as if we are little children and steals our privacy.  It takes away our home and forces us to move the little we can into a room like we had in college with a roommate we despise for being so much like us.  It makes us be mean and forgetful.  It makes our fingers curl up and takes away our eyesight.  It leaves us slight shadows of what we used to be.  But still it does not come.  Oh no, death prefers to wait in the corner laughing at our slow demise.  Waving at us, just out of reach.  “When will you take me?” we whisper, hoping death will answer.  We fear deaths’ silence.  We sleep and open our eyes to another day of longing.  Longing for what was, what might have been, and most importantly, longing for death.  Still it waits, breathing heavily in our ear when we aren’t looking.  When will death come?  When we least expect it or no longer care.  That is when death arrives, irritated that we have given up searching for it.  Mad that we have forgotten.  Then death slinks in, icy fingers lacing around our throats, lovingly cradling us, cooing for our love.  That is when we smile, looking into the eyes of that which we have sought.  Finally able to rest.

Death is a crafty bastard.


Oh so very silly to think that things can change

When life is full of insanities and eternal swirls of crazy

Trip through this if you are brave and not coordinated

Even if you can dance I fear you will find

You do not know this song

And this path that is well-travelled

Still looks so unfamiliar to you

Maybe this time you will notice the items you need for your journey

Or perhaps you will leave the tire iron against the tree

And the mushrooms by the fence

And the old jacket on the rock

Only to find yourself with a flat, hungry and alone in the cold night

Wondering how you could have missed it all

Even though you have traversed this road

So many times you have worn grooves in the dirt

And holes in your shoes

Best to just stop and smell the roses

Even if they look like daisies and you are allergic

Anything is better than the bittersweet knowledge

That you have made the same mistakes again

And that this road is not the problem

It is the fact that you are on it again at all

Most Inspiring blog award

The rules:

Thank the person who nominated you:

Thank you to Tim at for the nomination and his writings which never fail to amaze me.

Tell 7 things about you that will not come up in your blog entries:

1. I love Disney.

2. I am on a roller derby team.

3. I used to have a job making toilet paper.

4. I love to laugh.

5. I eat quite a bit of beef jerky.

6. I believe in ghosts.

7. I am horrible at karaoke.

Pass this on to seven other bloggers that you find inspiring.








You all inspire me!


Could have been

The words that are uttered

Alone in the dark

While laying in the bed of

Your bitter regret

Wishing for things that

Never were

Thinking if only

Wondering what if

The dreams of youth are at your feet

Laying in the waste of your

Empty life

Laughing at you

Beckoning like a much needed

Drink in the desert of a mutilated heart

I have cried too

I have wanted that which

I so desperately cannot reach

With this

These empty hands

And boxes full of memories

I’m not even sure

Are real


Bitter is the taste

Sour on the tongue

Sweat on the brow

Eyes closed, reaching

Emptiness abounds here

In the quiet a whisper

A breeze on the lips

Opening arms expecting

Embraces not given

Love not reciprocated

Hurt unnoticed

Tears without a tissue




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