It’s a word you know right down to the bone,

Monosyllabic with so much undertone.

And it makes the wine taste sweeter, food richer.

And it paints with each exhale the perfect picture.


Sometimes you let the word rest on your chest;

Find the slot in your ribs where it fits the best.

Sometimes you hide it in fear it will be found

By other eyes, by your eyes, by those not around.


It is a word that you dream of in lucid color

And walk among its letters like with a lover,

But the embrace of it is warmer—that of a mother;

You wake from it, bereft, looking for another.


And when another speaks the word same as you,

When the arch of syllable sounds bold and true:

The word becomes more. The person the same.

And that word will slowly become their name.


It’s a word that you know right down to the bone

And that word is simple;

It is home.


Broken Wing

I once had a bird.
It wasn’t always mine, this bird.
The bird had been wild and free
Then the bird found me.

Winter had been creeping in
And I guess he supposed to leave,
But the wind blew just the wrong way
And that is how he came to me.

His wing broke so that he was lame;
I found him fluttering and crying.
He came home with me that night
And I managed to keep him from dying.

The wing never healed the right way
And he could not fly, but he hopped.
Pure joy lit my life like the sun
And I thought nothing could make it stop.

But a bird with a broken wing
Is a bird on its way towards death.
Winter started to end and the other birds came back
And my songbird cried out to them.

It warbled all spring from my windowsill,
But the song got weaker, feathers fell away.
I tried to save it, but I didn’t know how.
I just watched my little bird slip further and further away.

I remember cradling him in my hands,
And kissing the crown of his head:
But nothing could stop the sweep of time
And by spring’s end, he was dead.

There is an inevitable, I accept that.
But there is also the preventable
And had I known more, he could be alive
He could have flown, if only I had been able.

But even with the cure somewhere
There might be no cure to be found
Because it may have been in the sky
And we’re forever caught on the ground
by our broken wings.

A/N: Cliche as hell title, but shhh. This is meant as comfort when there could be a real answer, but it is forever out of our reach despite that. 

Dear MonSanto

Dear MonSanto


I like to eat food

It keeps me alive

And sometimes it tastes good

When I eat what I like.


I’m not terribly choosy.

Whatever’s on sale or I know how to cook

But now that’s not good enough–

Now I have to take a closer look.


Because you decided I don’t need to live:

I just need to live long enough to buy.

And hey! With 9 billion people

Who cares if, like, a quarter survive?


You put known carcinogens in our food.

Force farmers to grow your seeds

And, if they don’t, you take their farms

Because it’s the whole industry you apparently need.


And when studies come out against you

Well, just sweep them on under the rug!

With an axe or a chainsaw for good measure

To get rid of that pesky, truth, bug.


So, in conclusion

And this is all you had to read

I hope some EU country subpoenas you to hell

so that you can never sell another fucking seed.




Homeward Bound

This is from an own-character universe, so it’s really me fanning over my own creation. Go me!

You might see a story from this -verse, but we shall see. The Awakening is connected, actually–this is the Interloper. A meddler. A traveler. 

(from m-w) Interloper: one that intrudes/interferes in a place or sphere of activity


Homeward Bound

Footprints of black dirt upon the road

Lodestone keeps pulling me home.


There is darkness in the sky

And it hangs low on the mountaintops.

I watch as the mist rolls in

Over the softly swaying crops.


The road has been abandoned for centuries,

Given over to death’s penitentiaries.

Sometimes you can see the phantoms on the shoulder:

While each year, the winters grow colder.


There is star dust in the air tonight

And I can taste it in the back of my throat:

The sharp sting of explosive creation

Timeless, but it still makes me choke.


The Wolf will not let me rest

And the Coyote continues his chase:

Brothers out to prove they’re the best

While I have only time to waste.


Where the road ends,

I continue.

Boston summer

It’s really hot in Boston. I’m sure you all can relate.


Boston Summer

The sky is a sapphire blanket

That rests on the peeks of skyscrapers,

And the Sun? I’d like to thank it

For burning the city to a good simmer.


The asphalt looks like running rivers;

The cars lumbering barges on the current.

And I do not remember how it feels to shiver

Since it is so hot and so apparent.


Seafood is the summer’s spread

And it is so hot that I can cook mine

On the floor of my living room or in my bed,

Since it has reached one hundred and nine.


Honestly, I want summer to be over

Because Boston is meant to be cold.

New England get your act together:

Why the fuck won’t it snow?!

An Ode to my dinner

An Ode to my Dinner

Oh Naan! how you make my heart sing

and play such a delicate tune on each delicate string.

My palate lusts for thy garlic-y taste:

A taste that time will too quickly erase.


Then, sweet Tikka Masala, who can forget about thee?

With your chicken and tomato and touch of spicy,

Languishing on top a pile of fluffy basmati rice.

To eat you? I certainly won’t have to think twice!


By the end of the hour, oh how my heart cries.

I have finished my dinner. I suppose this is good bye.


A/N: My dinner was delicious. The end.