i long to paint but this unceasing palette of dirty whites of tired grays that lurks outside every window sucks the rich marrow from my

Reclaiming my inner badass at 50
i long to paint but this unceasing palette of dirty whites of tired grays that lurks outside every window sucks the rich marrow from my
i should brand myself a failure self-flagellate for failing to meet expectations of those who wear white coats shiny stethoscopes draped casually around necks I
i am a woman built of words it is not natural comfortable intuitive for me to tie my tongue tightly to choose silence to be
i do not speak with forked tongue yet you damn me a demon paint my hands blood red cut me black diamond hard innocent misunderstanding?
hyper- focus is an art i slip into words into screen until i am nothing. . . nothing but blinking cursor nothing but task decoded
poetry is oft written by those who love too much too freely hearts splayed open on sterile dissection trays cool stainless pins trapping vulnerable fluttering
I have been mulling the election results over for a few hours, and want to try to articulate what many of us are feeling. I
I am living on caffeine and anxiety my diet nutrient- and comfort- poor occasional sips of hope curdle instantly against inflamed walls of my leaky
grief the connective tissue webbed between each bone dangles unresolved from bleached ribs marbled shreds of tissue ruffling the edges of my open chest cavity