I embrace wisps of frigid cold in winter,
for I am alive...

Consumed within a lost generation
of fear and emptiness, I've reached...

It was a hazy romance
that caught a glimpse of your soul...

My husband, Mr. Pike
is going on a hunger strike...

I was weaned off of milk weed,
danced upon a summer conversation...

There are times
when I'm drowning...

It's the thoughts of following others
that get mixed within thickets of closed...

I wore a vacant expression-
Under the stairs...

I was raised within an old school,
never made to feel like a fool...

Gathering twigs along a brush
of mossy tears as wind gazers...

Burning coals,
hurting my sanity...

Specs of ash fall like brazen tears,
pretending to share emotion...