The Plunge


My fingers are turning blue from the cold.
The numbing,
unable to move your body
more than a shiver, cold.

Crystallized droplets
softly touch my bare skin.
I stand, ankle deep
in the white snow
surrounded by venturers
ready to take the plunge.
As I’m thinking to myself,
what have I done?

I wrap my arms around my naked stomach-
freezing from the gentle breeze,
waiting for the whistle
to signal movement.


I trudge through the cotton-laid ground,
quickly burying myself in the sea
of ice and fear.

Once the waters reach my waist,
I can no longer bear
the bitter bite of the frost.

Turning around,
I head back to the solid ground
to find warmth and comfort
in the knowledge
that I will never try that again.

Internal Nature


As I stood on the embankment,
glanced over the edge,
and watched the water careen
through the narrow creek,
crashing, lightly, as it fell
over rock,
over rock,
over rock,
all seemed still– except
that glistening cascade,
humming its constant gurgle.

The skeleton trees
lurched over the creek,
shielding it
from the eyes of the world,
concealing it
from everyone, but me.
I, under those bones,
stood atop an old blanket
of dry leaves, and clung
to the bark to keep steady
as I leaned with the dirt,
with the trees,
with the water,
and for a moment,
I felt those stones inside
begin to wear down,
as the stream
flowed down my cheeks,
along with the creek.

The Question of Perception


Maybe it’s all just an illusion–
A facade set up
for my eyes, solely
and when I turn away,
everything changes,
everything transforms itself.
It molds and configures,
it adjusts and adapts
to accommodate
the next viewer.

Maybe the world isn’t composed
of what we choose to see,
but what chooses to be seen.
Do we hold the controls
of our own perception,
or is it guided
by everything around us?

If so, what happens
when no one’s looking?

I Hope It Rains On New Year’s


I hope it rains on New Year’s
to muddy the ground
that I’ve been treading,
forcing me to create new paths
and to leave what once was,
stuck in the past.

I want to hear the sounds
of beads trampling on the roof
as we count down to midnight,
each second, each moment,
renewed by the drops,
washing away the pain,
regrets, mistakes,
and heartbreak
of the year before
and remove the stains
on my heart.

I hope it rains on New Year’s
so I can be refreshed
and my life can bloom
as bright as I plan
in the year to come.

2015 In Review

The stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here's an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 22,000 times in 2015. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 8 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

Thank you all for your support! This is truly amazing!! 🙂


Isn’t it strange
how often you’re surrounded
by strangers?
The car you’re following behind
as your driving down the interstate–
Who is inside, what are they talking about?
Are they singing to songs on the radio?
Are they arguing
about something one of them said?
Something one of them did?
Or maybe didn’t do?
Where are they going?
Why are they going there?
I think about these people every day.
I wonder about their lives,
about their plans, their destinations.
I wonder if any of them
ever wonder the same
about me.

3 a.m.


It’s 3 a.m. and my body is awake
but my mind is dreaming
of ways to escape–
Escape these feelings
that have caged me inside,
that have slowly stolen
any hope I ever had.

So I’m left, lying here
in a prison
of pillows and sheets,
surrounded by comfort
that I can’t seem to reach.

Why We Write About Love

People long for connection–
Through words,
through emotions,
through experiences.
Sharing these commonalities
and expressing ourselves
offers a narrow, rickety bridge to others,
allowing them to cross over
into our minds,
our hearts,
and our souls.

Love, possessing the most
universal tendencies
–heartache, betrayal,
happiness, passion–
provides the sturdiest
of all bridges.

People feel it,
they experience it.
Whether they’re writers
or readers,
they’re familiar with it.
They don’t question
whether the boards
have weathered too many storms
or if the ropes are tied
tight enough to hold them up.
They have crossed
that bridge countless times before,
and they know
that they’ll reach the other side.

I have a Q&A on my instagram where I write poems based on questions readers ask. The the question for this was: “Why do so many poets use their words, talents, and failures in love to write self-centered poetry about so called love over n over again when there’s oh so many colors in the rainbow?”

My answer (described more in-depth): Poets are just people with emotions who turn their feelings into a piece of writing. Many poets do step beyond the stereotype and write about a vast array of topics outside the realm of love or relationships, but love still plays a strong part in poetry because it evokes so much passion in people. It can create so many different feelings about ourselves, others, and the world. Love can alter our perception and I think it will always dominate poetry for that reason. However, there are poets who focus on love and write nothing else, and a lot of people who don’t read multiple poets’ work, think love poems are the only kind of poetry that exist. There are a lot of possible topics out there, but poets tend to choose those that speak and mean the most to them and readers do the same. If a poet wrote about some experience no one can relate to, why would anyone read it? It’s passionate, it’s marketable, and it’s meaningful.

P.S. – apparently, as the person who’s question I answered told me, this “fails as a poem.”

If you would like to ask me a question about myself, writing, life, anything really, just comment below. I will write a poem to answer your question!



My spine is slowly shrinking
into a constant crouch.
With a curved back
and hunched shoulders,
I resolve into myself.
Cowering away from the surrounding forces
beckoning me near,
I wear this yellow spine
and flushed red cheeks
to disguise me from myself.
For if I lifted my lowered face,
and looked into the world,
I may discover something
about them- about us-
that I never wished to find.

Fallen Angels

Monsters like werewolves, goblins, and vampires
are all too fabricated and embedded
with lies, fantasy, and fiction
to offer me anything
other than momentary entertainment.
But demons–
those once-angels of God,
who fell, ashen and decayed,
and transformed
from an ideal of beauty
to a thing of disgrace,
who lost their vibracy,
their light–
they are the monsters
I can’t escape from.

Because of their choices,
dark wishes, and desires,
those once so vivid,
so loved and adored
are now feared,
hated, and abhorred.

There’s a fine line
between innocence and sin,
and once you’re standing
on the border,
you never know which way
you may fall.

I have a Q&A on my instagram where I write poems based on questions readers ask. The the question for this was: “what is your favorite monster or demon from literary tradition?”

If you would like to ask me a question about myself, writing, life, anything really, just comment below. I will write a poem to answer your question!