Am I not enough?

Forever in debt to those who have had to hold my hair back, and wipe my face.

Time hasn’t passed to quickly,
And I am not too young to see that my reflection should look older and much more wise.

Who am I suppose to be- if not me?

When it really hurts- the pen is out of ink.

I thought the sun had set, and we were epically done.
I saw a bitter end to something we had wanted and fought for so badly.
I heard your heavy footsteps leave in concession to my ultimatum.
I smelled your colon that still lingered on my scarf- and buried myself in it.
I felt my heart bleed out of my body- taking my promised happiness and spilling it all over anything you had touched.
I knew my world was crumbling around me in block shaped memories.

"It’s not just about you" I heard you spit over your shoulder the moment before the door closed behind you.
I knew you were gone.

I want to be your muse.

Is that too hard to ask?

Beginning or the end… It’s all the same.

The last breath- that was ripped away from us all too soon.
You may choose it, but I refuse to live in the gloom.
Another tragedy brought into its life, with a heart in one hand - and the other holding its knife.

A New Day

The nights dew has fallen
The last moments of absolute darkness has passed.
And although the moist fog still lingers in the cool air,
it is a new day.

Our bitter words and broken thoughts still stain my mind with their venom.
My lethargic heart and heavy hands struggle to make our ends meet.
Melodies of sad radio lyrics pass through the room with triumph.
As they find their place and set up shop in our silences.  

Selfish thoughts of whose role is whose’s, ensue.
Am I not the damsel? Then why are you the constant distress?
Have I not the right to be swept off into the sunset?
 Then why are you pleading me dry.

There is no expectation of fairytale endings, and sweet to’dos.
But should love feel like an uphill battle?
Where broken hearts and war wounds share the same structure?
And every morning a hangover of guilt.

Tired of love, but addicted to its taste and feel
We are both lost in its inevitability.
Trying to write a map that has been wronged.
To fix a past, we had no part in destroying.  
We feel alone, because we are alone.

Alone. Together. but alone.

It is a new day.


I am not a poet.

I do not pretend to read books I have never heard of.

My grammar would make a thousand writers turn in their graves.

I haven’t always been able to express myself through writing- so I have sang.

I am not a singer.

I do not warm up every morning.

I do not analyze the different pop artists and try to mimic in hopes I could maybe sound like them.

I am me. When I wake up, I am just me. And I like to put a pen to paper- and I like to share my thoughts about my world.
I love to belt out a song that has special meaning, If only just to me.

To live in a world- where we have to define ourselves everyday as one thing or the next- is tiring.

I am me. And I love you for you. And that my friend, is enough.

The first moment of dawn

Another sleepless night to add to the arsenal of exhaustion.
The cool fall air has calmed my spirit, but my mind still holds the last bit of anger still stirring in my tired body.

As I push the last of the smoke from my lungs I wonder if anyone is really excited to wake up in the morning. Or if they are, like me, waking up dreading every moment of the day. Where every smile is followed by a sigh.

There is a moment you know.. Your fucked.

I think the hardest thing about being an theatre major undergrad at 27 is how little your peers actually know about life.

And how to truly bring your passions and self into not only every role, but into every aspect of your life.
As artists we are constantly growing and changing. People get stuck in one season and think “this is who I will be for the rest if my life”.
And hey- if that makes you happy- then all the power to you.
But as an artist, as a woman- I feel suffocated by the prospect of standing still, and just ‘letting life happen’ around me.
Call me crazy- but I love the feeling of control.

To be seen, or not to be seen. That is the real question.

It tickles me a little bit to think of secret or not-so-secret blog writers.

We all secretly hope to be discovered for our greatness, which is why we all post on the web instead of scribbling it down in moleskin notebooks in some too expensive coffee shop.

I have always thought that maybe I would die tragically— and like Anne Frank or Emily Dickson be discovered to be a secret genius of words.
But alas. I am still alive. And my private thoughts remain hidden away from society and its judgement.

Sleep. Must sleep…

Positive thoughts to help these pills of bitterness slip down the hatchet.

But who cares right? No one actually reads these words of mine except for me and my demons.