the day a fly won

I was throwing some wine back when I noticed a small fly of sorts

at the bottom of my glass.

I saw it slowly move its tiny legs and immediately

my heart began to fill with empathy, so naturally

I decided I would save it.

Since I sat pen-in-hand, I dipped the fine tip of my black sharpie

in the deep red and urged the fly to take hold of it,

the act transforming my pen into a

literary lifesaver any writer would appreciate.

Thankfully the fly seemed to cooperate

as it clung to my writing instrument

allowing me to rescue it from the booze and place it

down on the balcony floor.

I laughed a little then

noticing how disoriented my friend seemed

as it stumbled around, getting perilously close to

falling through the cracks with each step it took.

“Maybe this fly has a death wish I know nothing about,” I thought.

Feeling good about my gracious deed

I wiped the Monastrell off the pen

and tried to write again

but to my dismay-

my pen was dead.

I guess it just goes to show that in the end

you can’t save everything.


Today the fly won.

artist date

Give me solitude.


In fact, serve it to me on a silver platter-

I’ll gladly be the woman alone at the bar

with nothing but a pen and paper and my imagination

to keep me company.

I’ll gladly let you mistake my pleasure

for sadness

so long as the silence isn’t broken

and I can remain in this sacred space

with lady inspiration

a little while longer.


I try to remember just when it was I felt the need to let my feelings out through words. When it was that I became a writer.

Maybe I was still so young thinking hadn’t yet felt like writing.

The words back then were always in the background, always around long enough

to feel like the normal.  Sometimes they would come like a series of beautiful melodies streaming through the leaves of tall trees, stirring just enough magic and beauty to catch my attention.  And once they did, they would hold me hostage.

You see, to experience the connection between creativity and inspiration is a divine experience. To feel that the words come to you and that you’re in charge of bringing them into being is miraculous conception. And once you begin to experience that, writing  changes from a hobby to a need. From recreational use to full-fledged addiction.

Whenever I put pen to paper I taught myself to experience sadness as if I were a narrator, floating over it and over my body, over the story, like the first time I smoked pot in college and could no longer sense reality.  With each stroke of the pen I detached from my pain a little more until it all just turned into words on paper. Some fragile thing to crumble up and toss away. So different than the monster I had first sat down with.

Writing has helped me realize the things we often consider so serious are temporary. And it also taught me that just because a feeling is interim, it doesn’t mean you should ignore it. It doesn’t mean it isn’t worth slowing down and paying attention to. Sometimes you just need to take time to lick your wounds. Sometimes you just need to look at the hurt and say “I see you.” Sometimes that’s the only way to heal.

And writing has healed me so many times I’ve lost count.


how to make a poet cry

there was a time when I woke with poetry

and went to bed with it,

a time when I walked the streets singing,

greeting birds and trees on my way

somewhere I didn’t have to be.

There was a time when I had time to waste.

When my biggest fear wasn’t failure

but unhappiness,

a time when I didn’t feel so overwhelmed by life’s daily responsibilities

which have come to feel like heavy shackles lately.

The biggest problem in being a poet these days is that when you’re looking for poetry in the daily

and don’t find it-

maybe because there was just so much to do (there always is),

you feel the burning question inside of you:

“what’s all of this for?”

and all the small victories and glories at the office

no longer hold any sense.


When the daily becomes the mundane

that’s the quickest way

to make a poet cry.


writer’s block

ink fills the blank space of the page

with words that come

one at a time

reluctantly and without rhythm

without heart

I’m not used to it

my usual words carry so much

weight and worth

into what I write

but here, takes these ones instead

they’ll have to do for now

until those more profound

find their way into my soul

out through this pen

onto the page and then

over to you.

What type of warrior are you?

Another dagger in the heart

You’d think by now that 

I’d have learned how 

to use my shield,

how to wield my sword…

Guess I’m just not

the type of warrior 

who fights off love. 

the power of words

how many crazy dreams

I’ve shared with a pen and paper,

how many ideas and plans have seen

perfectly blank pages,

how many loves I invented,

how many ghosts I have chased away

with the stroke of my pen

how many dead I have risen,

how many different lives I have lived,

how many hearts I have broken,

how many lies I have told myself to believe,

how many tears I caused, but also joy

because words become feelings

when feelings won’t do

but today I write love into life

and hope in the darkness

because that’s what a writer can do.