Hearts as Shelters

You use hearts as shelters 

You leave them burned and broken in your wake


Glass Traps

Rewrite of a poem I wrote in 2009

Oh, I am losing my mind
over this silliness
what exactly do I expect to find?
my heart cries. but I know a trap.

What did I expect to find?
a gem on the sidewalk
but I cut my hand on glass
why did it end up like that?

I only cut my hand on glass
I pine and urge
grab too quickly
I never learn to stop and ask.

Is it just another piece of glass?
my heart sets traps
I panic. I worry
an unnecessary stress.

I pine and urge. Too easily
my heart just keeps setting traps
when has it ever worked out?
all gems are made of glass.

People they panic. They worry
why do they act like that?
Is this a curse we all live with?
or is it just poor luck.

Why do they act like that?
with their heart on their sleeve
they compete, then complain
they just want to be entertained.

With hearts on our sleeves
we put ourselves into fire
and don’t know why we burn
when will we learn?

How did it get like this?
Stumbling down streets
like toddlers. we don’t learn
to watch our feet for traps.

If people stopped competing
complaining and setting traps
we’d find gems on the sidewalk
instead of getting cut by glass.



Warm Hearts

Warm Hearts, A Beautiful Curse

I’ve always had trouble
with hearts.
All of them
are so beautiful.
I look
            too closely
at them. Get to close
to their warm vibrations.
Rhythmic vibes
a melodic hum.
            A siren’s call
in the warm salty water.

which runs so black
              yet feels so good
in my chest and face.
But blood runs black
that turns
a once hot
             flushed face
urgent love
             passionate hands
into dark
              cold sockets, Dark pits
and greedy urges.

Once soft
a whisper
just above my skin
spread such joy
Such excitement
Throughout my body
becomes twisted
A dread through
the tunnels
of my spirit
A cold, clenching
that tears violently
at my pulse
Shutting down
            all passion
            all heat
Left cold

with greedy hands
and urging eyes.
I’m not
             supposed to run
with a beautiful curse
that drains me
and curls me
              a fetal ball
stored deep
in the dark corner
of the cage around my heart.