Monday, December 7, 2015


I used to believe we had forever
We had time to spare
You and I
We'd always be young and free

And now the loss 
Hides in the corners of our memories
The ones we created 
And the echoes of your voice

I used to believe in magic
I used to believe in God
But somehow I'm not quite sure
How he'd let you die
How he could be so unfair

There is a dark silence 
Haunting whatever peace I had
I used to think everything would be fine
In the end we'd be happy

But you have proven me wrong
I wonder how
And I wonder why
And perhaps it isn't my place to ask
But I want to know
Because in the silence of my home
I can't keep the tears at bay 

I used to think hurt was temporary
But nowadays it shows up everyday
One too many people lost 
And the loneliness creeps up uninvited

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Too Late

It was done
He could not take it back
The words echoed in my heart

It was one four words breaking
As he spoke
Shattering the world

He tried
Tried to apologize
For the words that spilled out of his mouth

It was done
Too late
Nothing could be erased

I cried
And I knew it was the end
Tonight he'd walk away

It wasn't over
He repeated
He just needed space

To breathe
From me
From this

Whatever it was
He could not call it love
It was to late

He tried to take them back
The words bouncing of the floor
I don't love you

Not anymore
Not before
Not today

I don't love you
I strung them together
And hung them on the wall

Four words
That he could not take back
Ever again.

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Parisian Muses

She saved me
The sky reflected in her eyes 
And she spoke the wisdom of kings and queens
She saved me
With history of lost courts
Of a city 
In ruins 
Changed by the passage of time
She saved me
By existing 

Thursday, October 2, 2014

Saturday, August 16, 2014

So Very Strange

It's so very strange 
These mornings that we wake up to
They're calm and they're tranquil
And I can almost feel the hope

It's so complicated 
This world we are born into
There is right and there is wrong
And there is what we choose to do

It's a gripping love affair
A storyline for tragedy
And often we are left
With doubts of what is best
Because there was no other choice

It's almost bizarre
This thing we call life
How much is too much?
And how do we make it stop?

The tears and insecurity
That seems to never fade
The fear and loneliness
Or this strange world

[photo: view from Sacre Coeur, Paris]

Monday, February 24, 2014

Sometimes it’s our vivid imagination that creates a story. And sometimes the story just presents itself, idly floating like a feather in the wind. It’s so grand a scheme, so beautifully perfect, so majestic in nature that we tend to think it unbelievable. We don’t pen it, afraid to mar it’s beauty and grandeur by a simple mistake in diction, the wrong use of vocabulary, the wrong scene, a chapter to many, a chapter to few and alas it escapes from the presence of reality, from the realm of time and in the end it’s as if it never existed.
The allusive myth, the creative fable, a fairytale shall we say? A beautiful story, surely too beautiful to have really existed in our world and time, so we let children toy with it, we let them believe for as long as their innocence will hold. We do so because they are the only beings capable of believing without question, without seeing, because they have faith, and they instill hope, and they believe in love. They believe in wonderful stories and saved lives.
If only we believed, as blindly as them, if we could turn back the clock and go back to the times we believed in ourselves, in our future, when no one and nothing could bring us down. We thought as all children do that we were special, that we were superheroes sent out to save the day, we were princesses and fairies and knights that would become presidents, and doctors and poets. We believed in magic, because we were magic. And so we were, because we believed it.
We were resilient, the best fights for our cause. We never gave up. We drew masterpieces, and wrote novels and discovered great advances in science  and we did it all by lunchtime. And then one day someone told us we were crazy, that the squiggle on paper was not a Michael Angelo, the piece story was nowhere near Shakespeare and that no whatever was on that dish was not a great discovery. And we let them take our dreams away. We searched out Michael Angelo and saw that no indeed we had not painted a Vatican masterpiece, we read Shakespeare and understood that Macbeth was better and that only Pasteur and Einstein deserved great Nobel Prizes. But we were wrong, because the story is still writing itself. That majestic one we talked about? It’s still there. It is as resilient as our childhoods were.
So take the floating feather, and finish out the story, make it believable, live it out, write it out so it materializes into existence and we can all read it when our skies are grey.
Make us believe in magic again. Because we are magic. I know we are.