To stay or go,

To stay, or go.

Should I stay or go?

The thought tumbled about in her head.

Wrecked with anguish, she made a snap decision.

To stay or go,

To stay, or go.

She reluctantly walked down the hall,

Trembling as she knocked on the door.

Open the door,

Close the door.

Open the door-Can I talk to you?

Close the door, it’s closed.

A single tear slid down her face,

Stumbling over words, she spoke-


“I don’t know how to say it,

How to say this, I don’t know,

Our trip to Athens has been cancelled-

My trip has been, that is, I’ve decided.

I’m wrecked with guilt, I’m going to Paris.

I’m going to Paris, and leaving you lonesome.”


Sorry she was, but sorry she was not.

Her selfish nature longed for comfort,

Comfort, I would not.

The anger bubbled, for this friend,

Was no friend of mine.

A foe, disguised as a companion,

With no consideration, but her own.


I’d put this poetically, but the words don’t do justice,

To put it simply, in the most straightforward of terms,

You my phony friend, are an asshole.


Every time

Is the last time.

Lies linger on your lips,

Drawing me in with sweet hellos that

Breathe out sinful goodbyes.



Is never the right time.

Stuck in contention,

Middle of a war that won’t be won.

Carry on, losing it, all for the sake of you.


This time

Is the last time.

Hear my heart as it slowly stops,

No longer beating for two.

Ticking that fades to silence,

Time’s out.


Artistic Flaw

The flawed artist, desperate and frail,

Failing, as he attempts to put pen to paper.

Crumpled scraps of paper clutter the floor;

Relinquishing his post to the next man in line

Would be easier. The thought’s crossed his mind

A few times before. The right words, any words

Are the only ones she craves now. She cries out,

Give me something to believe. The artist cannot produce

Under forced commitment. Beside himself, he stands

Before her, professing love like lectures in a lonely hall.

Contempuous Color

fall in denmark
When we came out of hiding, the lights were louder than I remembered. Eyes buzzing, lids flickering, trying to shield my conscious from the reality of this. Slow moving and dazed in a daydream, the colors began to call to me; surrounding me, they begged me to open my eyes. The screaming reds and yellows hold me in contempt before    
                                                                                                                                                                         it all fades to black.

Research: Love // F. Fiction

I scoured the book shelves, hoping to find the right words;

A quote, a sentiment of some sort, an articulation to

Convey the messages from my heart to my head.

Searched in silence ’til the ticking clock stopped, and I,

Nothing more than a silly girl, was alone with her books.

Thus I resigned to this simple fact:

Not all the words in the world could explain this feeling for you.

Social Suicide in a Town Where Nothing Ever Happens

Stagnancy is the consequence I pay for staying this way,

When I know I should have left, revised my plan; and,

Lately, I’ve become acquainted with a former self from my youth.

Eavesdropping on corner whispers, the substance-less consonants

Sigh, strung together in the form of polite conversation with old foes.

The utter disgust in your tone, telling me I do more harm than good.

But in a town where nothing ever happens, I’m always coming up short

And running on empty.

The First Step

The first step is always hard. Awareness. It hit me all at once, the realization that I’d been living the same day repeatedly for a year. In that time, I found, that the fire in my soul had become a dwindling flame for which this town could no longer ignite. Waking up with purpose became a fleeting memory; and I knew it was time to move on. The soles of my shoes were worn, and the lines from long days and short nights ingrained upon my face. But the second part is the hardest. Leaving. In a place where nothing ever happens there sure is a lot to miss when you’re on the road. The crisp fall air in a Northern town and the echoing of the wind through your hair will only be a memory. The first step is hard, but the second is the hardest.


When the final curtain fell, it was nothing more than old ink staining yellow parchment paper. A string of nothingness forming a single line I wrote, rephrased, and threw away      “You’re nothing more to me than a page in yesterday.” Prided in an absolved and cleared conscious; as clear as the clouded night sky, & foggy windows on those rainy nights spent in your car.