The vivid crimson locks crowning her head

speak only a fraction of the fire inside.


Small of stature, but tall and fierce

of will,

leaping onto the highest platforms to deliver her address.


All those waiting

wonder how this tiny being can hope to think

she can move the parade with only a few words.


Once she opens her mouth,

her voice soars,

thunderous compassion forcing their hearts to pound as one.


Their feet march without order,

the cause more true and just

than any they have heard before.


No longer a spoilt princess.

A leader, brighter than the sun.




Who’s listening?


Chatter, natter, prattle



Screens in our face, over our eyes

in our minds.

Siding with popular opinion,

shying away from engaging that hungry engine, the brain.

Work them, encourage them

steam-powered as they may be.


Quiet, I crave.


No, they sing.

We need the noise, need the buzz,

need the bright lights and sweat and alcohol

and neon screens

to feel normal.



What is normal

but a falsity of who you are

trying to resemble

the falsehood of others.



Who’s listening?

Chatter, natter, prattle



Quiet, I crave.

Independent thinking, I urge.

Eccecentric. Weird. Outcast, they sing.


Poetry, Uncategorized

Oh, it’s that section of the library, is it?

Books in court,

their words binding the defendant

to the table

wrapping the air with motive,


evidence that is pure fiction,

until the jury

stands up and reads


The books fall down

blown away,

scattered, pages billowing

like petticoats

in a stiff morning breeze.