let the moon undress you before they touch your lips never forget

Her skin was sticky with sweat and blood. The afternoon heat mixed with the smell of the salty sea beyond the treeline didn’t cover the smell of her sweat or the blood on her arms

here, the woman says, drink this . she is holding a mug in her old tired hands; knuckles like tree knobs

I don’t think we ever stop wanting to be loved by the ones who created us. There had to be a little love there in

I love that self-publishing makes it so easy for independent authors to share their art with the world now, so

I want to write about the way you touched me and made love to me, but I don’t because

I hope you stop standing in places where you can no longer grow. I hope

maybe I should make coffee instead

I led you to the water

stepping over the worn down path

I’ve always been a writer and started writing songs when I was fifteen. Now as an [kind of] adult, I love creating poetry because it’s like writing a song, but without the music.

This is pretty much how it goes.

it’s an early October evening