Write poetry. Get feedback. Discover poets.

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...

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...

I awoke this morning in a warm room with hydrostatic thoughts diffusing with the early drip-tension of sunlight. Muscles sore, body slow, I maneuvered through some basic intuitive limbering, stretching the body to fill up the soul, heart, and mind. That was my intention; but then, I didn't really have an initial value for the day, for these chain...

You made a comment today. And suddenly I was back— Not in a memory, But in a feeling I thought I’d outgrown. That room with too many voices, Too many eyes that never met mine, Only glanced, judged, And moved on. They never said I was too much. They didn’t have to. It was in the empty seat beside me, The way they shifted in shared silence, As if my...

An ocean's depth behind her eyes, yet soft, Devouring still, into the soul they pour. Each tender gaze doth raise my pulse aloft: Such beating as the ancient drums of war. Of mind divergent, wonders do abound, Life's codes and patterns as strange as nature knits, And on no spectrum is a label found, As she beyond all category sits. Does she see art...

Remnants of a Passing fate Fragments of a Dying destiny Wings turned chain Shaking off the prison Chasing liberation Consumed by Reckless abandon I'll be dead Then free

Going into my garden this time of year is like seeing an aging friend. We used to talk of the future, now he speaks of the end. Strong, open arms that once hugged me grow more frail each visit it seems. He is wearing yellows and browns, I remember him in summery greens. Our words that seem business as usual are actually a long goodbye. I head...