Born of Fire

Spider silk dangling from chipped paint below a tin roof you can see through Empty cans sitting on top of foamy puddles shaped like footprints Heavy breath falling from trembling lips It's a beginning that I just can't end

There are days still after all the blood sweat and tears where I still lie to myself. I lie and say how great I think I am, how proud I am of myself, how I know I've accomplished a lot. I lie and say I know I'm nice, funny, a good person. It's a lie because I don't believe it. When I'm alone, face to face with myself in that mirror of self reflection I don't see those things. But she does. She sees the truth with eyes that peer into the deepest parts of me. She traces the outline of my soul with delicate fingers and when she speaks the demons in me tremble at her whisper.

There are things at work in this world that we do not, and cannot know. The irony is, in the end, I think those are the things that want to be noticed the most. People often say that the universe works in mysterious ways, but what if the universe doesn't want to be mysterious. What if all it wants, all it is waiting for, is for someone to notice how simple it really is.

I love to hear myself talk but I'm running out of things to say and there are times when I'm almost positive that I'm completely full of shit.

I don't see the necessary in the ordinary so I'll give it a little extra and learn to fly.

Hope: a fools promise it's the sun in a whisper that falls on deaf ears

Every word I write comes from you I don't have a poetic bone in my body Just a bleeding heart and a soft spot for pretty words You are more than a muse you are the words themselves and each time I write I trace your outline on the page