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A thousand miles or three, some distance more; Does it much matter so, or not at all? Each wave that comes a-lapping at her shore Shall whisper softly, echoing a call Of love; a feather 'neath the ocean's roar, Left lingering, to trace the sand so calm As would my fingers gently stroke her palm. More acrostic love-anguish, I'm afraid (same...

Goodbye my old friend, You’ve slowed in your old age You should know, your openness and creativity Helped break me from my cage I may be the only one who visits you now But I hope you wake up Some way, some how, If anyone reads this You’re in the right place Please come here often And quicken my friend’s pace Thank you to all who’ve come and...

I keep a spine that bends toward fairness, and every time I straighten it, the doorway shrinks. "your disrespect borders apathy" dictations of trouble scribbled into me. In truth, I notice the weight placed on backs already tired, the hours that leak past daylight, the pay that never learns to grow. So I’m released again— another quiet box for...

How can you love when hate's all you've known? How can you arrive when the chance has flown? Love feels so distant, hard to comprehend; When words lose their melody, and rhythms won't blend. Without a guide to show you the way, Will you wander in circles, lost day after day? In a world without maps, where paths intertwine, How do you find...

In Buddhism, there is a belief in the inevitability of suffering... which is conquered only through reincarnations, overcome only by attaining Nirvana. But I believe that love is a balm- it cannot undo pain but serves as a reminder that for every act of violence, there are others - of kindness, of charity and though many are...

Only the night matters, its granaries filled with gold, the awakening of the voice. Under the regime of the sun time bends the heart, waiting frays the mind. That's where I survive, among fragments of screams and visions of blue; my dream-horse lost in the desert.

They call her a voice of brown pain, But we’ve heard louder cries, from fields soaked in sacrifice, from mothers who buried sons, not metaphors. They sold us short, for lowercase lines and over-capitalized lies— as if formatting could mask the absence of truth. She speaks of lands she never walked, names wounds she never bore, calls for borders...