On Every Face



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 On every face,
A smile.

What better way
To start a new chapter,
A new life than to be
Surrounded by the
Smiling faces of those
We love, we respect,
We hold dearly.

On every face,
A smile.

It's My Thing

vi.sualize.us

Years ago,
I would enter a room
And a corner would
Beckon me.

Once situated,
I would put
Pen to paper,
Paper to pen
And let it flow.

And like a flood heavy
River, my thoughts,
My words would erupt
Onto the pages,
Leaving them soaked.

Soaked with ideas
And concepts
That had no rhyme
Nor reason in my head,
On my tongue,
But on paper,
They would make sense.

In time,
These words stretched
And pulled from the confines
Of verses and stanzas
And morphed into paragraphs
That told stories
That wanted to be known,
To be told,
To be heard,
To be read.

I’ve been doing this
For years, never claiming it
As my own,
As what I do,
As what I am,
But now I own it.

I own the right
To say that
I am a poet,
That I a writer,
It is what I do,
It’s my thing.

I Found Peace

vi.sualize.us

Daniel laughed out loud,
And usually it would thrill me,
But in this moment,
It only chilled me.

The gasoline had leaked
From the can
Creating a river of death
That pooled before me,
Becoming a lake tinged with
My fear.

His eyes were wild,
His movements, too quick,
His hatred shone and flickered
Around him as though it lived
In his atmosphere.

Those fingers used to intertwine
With mine, those hands
Used to stroke my cheeks,
But now they struck a match.

Now they tossed the match
Into the river of death.
Flames caught, leaping and
Jumping, following the river
To where I sit bound.

And in one breath,
The flames began to consume me,
But I refused to look away
From my former lover’s face.

As my skin melted,
As the smoke filled my lungs,
I stared at him,
I stared at my killer.

I died,
And in that death,
I cursed him.

I cursed him with
The darkest of magic,
A magic fed by
My rage.

It was that magic
That kept me alive
After my body had died.
And it was that magic
That helped me kill
Daniel.

And it was in his death,
I found peace in
My own death.

The Last Muse



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She was the last
Of her kind.
The last of the muses,
Sprite women who whispered
Inspiration into the ears
Of artists and geniuses.

One by one,
Her sisters disappeared
As they were no longer needed,
Their voices drowned out
By the droning of modern life.

She was now gaunt
And she knew her days
Were numbered, so
She donned her best dress
And got her favourite parasol,
Then waited for her fate.

It came four days later,
She was frozen in her steps
And slowly her body
Turned into gold dust
And in the breath
Of the digital world,
She blew away.

The last of the muses
Disappeared and
No one was there to
Mourne her loss.