We are so afraid of holes because

Holes are signs of imperfections

Holes are where decay set in.

People look into holes

And only see gaps

So we cover

Our holes.


What if


Is when the holes

Are allowed to work?

Letting light through the breaks?

Since fists too tight to open

Can never hold another hand

Or release the regrets of the past.



“Come on,” the mother tugged at loose, plaid sleeves,

The other daughter watched across the street.

My brakes in anticipation squeaking,

Glances from all three plus me at the wheel.

A quiet intersection of our lives.

She then waved, urging me to drive around,

At this moment, more in command of me

Than the daughter too scared to cross the street.

And two parallel lines met just then,

Touching briefly before we all moved on.



It sneaks

through the cracks

like a bubbling

pitch that burns and numbs

as it crawls across the

surface of my vision stark

and black against the blue glow of

monitors and screens which smirk at me

like I’m not good enough and I’ll never

be okay, and as it washes over me

and hardens into tire rubber I can’t muster

the strength as my limbs are tight against my body and

I’d have to lift something with muscles I’ve never

used before or ever knew existed, like

I’m wrapped in cement and I don’t have the

momentum to spin and I’m too far

behind everyone, so I hide

where its safe where nothing can

hurt because I’ve been on

this road and it’s just

a big circle.

I feel sick

and so


Idyll Of Trees

The verdant umbrella flaked in golden light

A tree I’ve embraced to shelter me through spring

As the rains soaked me through until I was rain too.

So much hope in this tree which would bear much fruit


The summer of stars marred by sleepless nights

A disparate desperation in the separation

As my health slumped against the bark-hewn trunk

Hope buckled under my weight against the root


The bones like lightning scattering through sky

A chill of leaf-laden whispers surging into screams

As autumn coughed in my nose, mouth, and ears

My tree leaned in the breeze and crushed me.


The woodcutter returned and pushed me aside

A crashing of all that I knew splintering amok

As he swung his ax like the fury of winter

The woodcutter separated me from my identity.


Together a fire was made to heal my bitterness

From the remains of a tree that I believed could save.

I see now a dead tree gives no life until killed.

Covered in bruises and ashes I was at peace.