The skies are gray. These eyes never dry. The scream surges up my throat. It takes too much to keep them at bay. Joy was lost somewhere between 27 and 35. My blood boils with anger. My fists clench. The skies are gray. I am blue. No Pollyanna words can assuage my feelings. I drift in a sea of faces. I don’t want to be in these places. Antisocial. It takes so much energy to be vocal. The gray skies remain. Am I insane? The gray skies wait outside my window. The anger grows. I want to punch faces. The rain falls from my eyes. I don’t want to be in this place.


The stars wasn’t as lonely as she/ gathered with many/ pinpricks in the sky/ tears pricked her eyelids/ The sun wasn’t as lonely as she/ The sky his very home/ clouds passing by/ The days just passing her by/  The streams wasn’t as lonely as she/ For she was always running into rivers/ She was running out of time / She was one in the universe/ a lonely planet/ orbiting herself

Almost forget that April is poetry month. Well here’s something. It’s not great. Or good. More on the okay side.


She stood on the edge of the shore/unsure which way the tide rolls/dreams ebb away/far as ocean from sky/They seem to meet somewhere unseen/There she stood/ while ocean wave goodbye.



Her colors were muted. She wanted to be bright. To shine like the sun. She was dour, dressed in black. Gray was her brightest color. She wanted to see something more…to be. But her vision was blurry. It rain from windows. She didn’t know how to begin. The yellow brick road. The unbeaten path. She was blue girl with shades of gray dancing before her eyes.

She was born on a Saturday. A sunny day. The clouds came as she grew older. The tears rolled. Whys rattled in her head. Teeth gritted with frustration. Where was the break in the clouds?
She was born on a Saturday. Everyday she felt pieces of herself dying. The underside of dark clouds were her ceiling. Dreams were a mirage.
She was born on a Saturday. Early July. But inside she felt like mid December. Frozen over dreams. She was born on a Saturday.

These feelings can’t last always

hands pressed against the glass

drowning in an ocean of tears

burning bright

stars eventually go dim


dreams lost in the black

whole lot of doubt

Turning over into a new day

but still the same

a lone star

in an overcrowded sky

outside the social circles

invisibly traipsing


She felt like a drop in the ocean. So small and insignificant. Everyday she was just going through the motions. Dreams in the rear-view mirror, closer than they appear. She felt like a failure, no matter how hard she tried. Nothing.  She was well into adult hood and she felt her only dream slipping through her fingers like water. She knows that everybody isn’t meant to be rich. And she wasn’t trying to gain the world’s acknowledgement. She just wanted a career in children’s literature. But every turn she was turned away. All her life she didn’t feel she was good at anything. She struggled through

She had this creative spark. But she could feel it dying everyday when she went to her retail job. She spent much of her twenties applying to corporate jobs, only to receive  a form letter explaining how someone else was more qualified. She really didn’t want to be stuffed in a cubicle. She wanted to make her living writing middle-grade fiction. She reads about all the book deals of other people (some much younger than she is). After reading about the success Amanda Hocking had with self-publishing, she decided to go that route.  But of course being a successful self-published author wasn’t in the cards. Selling 10 copies doesn’t get you noticed by agents and publishers.

She’s on the cusp of being 40 and she wonders if all her youth was spent chasing a dream that so many seek but few find.

Creativity suppressed
by depressed thoughts
the war is fought
in the mind
a palace becomes
a prison





The flowers have long since wilted


Chocolate kisses have melted


You never came


I tire of plucking petals


Being a starry-eyed maid-in-waiting…


For you to come


Bleeding love?


My heart has turned tortoise shell


You took too long


The relationship sailed on


Leaving me to drown with insecurities



timemanagementtipsThe smoke rose like wispy serpents, fiery tongues licked the ground. Buildings burned and a barbecue smell waft through the air. Somewhere amid the charcoal rubble an amber eye popped open. Then a leg in tattered slacks wiggled beneath a board. An arm shot through the rubble. After a few minutes she was free.  Tiny sparks danced on her corduroy sleeve, her midnight curls matted with blood and sweat. She was cut and bruised, but she would soon heal. She hobbled among the destruction, a twisted unicycle here, an engulfed vehicle there. She stopped and covered her nose with the collar of her shirt.  She stared at the gutted frame of the wheel of time. It no longer spun. Panic began to drum inside her chest. She stepped backwards. Since the beginning of time the wheel has spun around and around. “Hello,” she called out. She squinted her eyes, scanning the smoke filled horizon. Where were all the people?  A patch of blue fell from above.

“Oh my stars.”  Another piece of blue fell near her shoe. Time was unraveling.  “No. No.” She raked her hands across her damp curls. “This isn’t good.” She smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. A faint ticking sound reached her ears. She pulled up the sleeve of her jacket. The timepiece, it was ticking. Albeit a half second too slow. “There’s still time.” A smile broke like a rule across her face.  She started to run, her legs moving with a sense of purpose. She needed to find the time capsule.

She was on a desolate street with abandoned cars with flung open car doors. She looked around. She took a step, something squeaked beneath her foot. A faded rubber duck. She wondered about the child it belonged to. She picked it up. There in the distance was the time capsule protruding from the side of a building. She couldn’t recall how she got so far away. As she made her way toward the time capsule, a figure swaddled in black stood between her and the time capsule. The hood pulled back, revealing the cherub face of a boy who had not reached puberty. “Well that’s a clever costume.” Tesla clenched her fist.

“For the time being,” the boy replied. “I don’t want to fight you. We are the same, you and I. Two sides of a coin.” The boy grinned but the smile didn’t reach his steel gray eyes.

Tesla spat on the ground. “I’m nothing like you. You want to destroy all the world. There are people here.”

“The world was once destroyed by a flood. And yet there are still people here. I think it’s time to start anew again.” The boy pulled out a gold gleaming pocket watch. It swung like a pendulum.

“Where did you get that?” The boy laughed, emitting a metallic sound. With a swish of his cloak he headed toward the time capsule. Tesla sprang forward grabbing for the trailing cloak. The boy spun around and elbowed Tesla in the face. She recovered but not quick enough. The boy was already in the time capsule, a triumphant grin on his face. He disappeared in a blink.

Tesla’s hand balled into a fist, she opened it. And there was the pocket watch. Now the ends of her cut mouth curved upward. There was still time to save everything and everyone.