In no way do I claim to be a poet. Art was always just a way to bring my insides out, and my poems are nothing more but pieces of me. My inner artist that aches for a response asks that I share this blog with people, but my nature of a perfectionist demands that I don't. If you stumble upon this, I appreciate constructive criticism. Remember, though: perhaps you can't see beyond ruins to the building that once was, so you can comment on its architecture. Perhaps, you take a look inside. This is a communion, after all.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Dreaming, drowing.

Yellow snakes
and poisonous teeth
she always fakes
a smile
and keeps
her head beneath
her feet
Slipping down
back in the dirt
She's way too weak
Or the world's too mean
Always waiting
for a wave
to wash her clean
and keep her down
until she drowns.
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