poetry

And so when he called me "Honey"...  I found it sweet. Mostly because he knew of the work I put into it. How I always made my own- Collecting niceties and making a conscientious effort  towards being aware of my surroundings-  Picking with pristine...

Life is more beautiful draped in tragedy. Cleaned and cleansed by tears. Hung out to dry by the Mothers' of time. Folded carefully and properly... only to be used again and again. To be re-soiled by the Earth- The cycle, the cylinder-- the sphere. Round and round......

You are more beautiful weakened by an ocean of atrocity. It has made you fluid~ Not only in tears but in whole. You are permeable... life breathes in your newfound perceptions of it. It appreciates your slow understanding... applauds your grief, and honors your...