Worker of words don’t blame her –

It is every ladies fantasy to find a poet who can encase her so perfectly in writing.

To feel so worthy of being placed in words so all may see her for all of eternity.

I know at least for me this will never be, and this is okay with me.

For in my heart of hearts I know I am not worthy of such arts.

Words flow but they hardly come and go.

I have never been one to sit and stay so the lines of a page for me are a cage and would only bring dismay.

Perhaps this is why I will never be placed into a grave…


Sing my soul into a song so I may dance with the leaves in a cool eve’s breeze for all to hear throughout the years.


We start out so pure, smooth as marble.

Life comes along and every painful experience cuts into us.


Carving away at us revealing what lies beneath, whatever lies beneath.


Life’s lashes leave behind lines in our skin and scars on our hearts, locking a once banging screen door…

We come into this world a pure white canvas.

Life makes art of us, it is up to us to interpret what we see…

Beauty or Misery