In The Roses

There’s fire in the sky.
I’m laying in a field of roses.
I’m not scared.
I feel you there.
You’re waiting for me.

A girl, lost

He locked her in a cage and kept her for himself.
The personality she should have found has been lost.
Like her innocence.
There’s a box locked deep inside of her, but she can’t open it.
If she did, a flood would open and take her away.
So instead, she buries it deeper every single day.
It’s better off that way.

On Writing Poetry

I let the poetry flow from my insides, straight to my fingertips.
The pain, fear, neglect pouring onto the page in an ugly array.
Depression is something many writers know well.
But we use that to our advantage.
Mincing the words together until they mean something, anything.
Then we expose them like a wound to the world for inspection.
They put words in between the lines that we painstakingly pulled from our hearts.
But that is the secret to our secret lives.
The satisfaction of no one knowing what is hidden behind those letters on the page.
They’re open for adaptation, so take what you need from our words.
Twist them as you please.
Only in our hearts lie the stories we mean.