My poetic soul

This is the post excerpt.

Deep lines of age can be hard to draw. Let’s explore our souls.

this is a blog..
where shit gets a bit weird
you’re reading this to yourself
without the realization
that I am now talking to you
directly, until now
repeat after me and this more
than once if you need to
I am grand
I am powerful
I am electric
I am incredible
I will survive this
I will be fine.

you are here now.


To the man I love, to my future..

The first time I felt your presence, I began joining the dots in the sky, wondering when our stars would align.
I often think of where you are and if you’re happy. Are you in love? I hope she is gentle. I know you and I are the same in that way—we bruise a little more easily than most. You see, our souls were made in the same breath.
I know I’m running late—I’m sorry. Things haven’t worked out the way I planned. But believe me when I tell you I am on my way.
Until then, think of me, dream of me and I will do the same. One day I will learn your name, and I will write it somewhere on this blog. And we will realize that we have known each other all along.


my soul

Will know

your soul

before we


meet. it will be like coming home after a long, long day.


It happens like this. One day you meet someone and for some inexplicable reason, you feel more connected to this stranger than anyone else—closer to them than your closest family. Perhaps because this person carries an angel within them—one sent to you for some higher purpose, to teach you an important lesson or to keep you safe during a perilous time. What you must do is trust in them—even if they come hand in hand with pain or suffering—the reason for their presence will become clear in due time.

Though here is a word of warning—you may grow to love this person but remember they are not yours to keep. Their purpose isn’t to save you but to show you how to save yourself. And once this is fulfilled, the halo lifts and the angel leaves their body as the person exits your life. They will be a stranger to you once more.


Women, build your house, while you are young. When your shoulders can carry the world. Before the weight of children and men. Build your house. Not with needles and haystacks. Not with wood and sticks. Not with matches and straw. Build your house with bricks.

Protect yourself from the wind and the wolves. Arm yourself with nails. Paper and pen. Hang your name on your door. Only then are you safe in the house you built—your house of bricks—when this house you built is yours.

A Meeting of Selves

On a long, empty road I was walking, I met my future self. Her hair, white as snow, hung down to her hips, with eyes that carried the wisdom of a sage. She pointed at the city behind me, the one I’d left crumbling into dust, and she said,

There is our past self among the ruins. She, the girlish one, the foolish one, the one who longs for a place with us here, where she is not welcome. The one who seeks to undo what we’ve done. She is chaos and ego. She knows only darkness and destruction.

She unfurled her fists, palms pointed in my direction.

And here you are, our present self, a woman in bloom, a picture of temperance, regard for kindness and humility. You have a strength that carries your entire life and the life of others. Knowledge of something sacred has changed and shaped you in a myriad of ways.


I want to cut your name in half

with a scalpel, join the first

to mine; stitch the second

into the sleeve of my sweater.

I want to wear you like skin,

hold you hard against me

while I think up a checklist

of the things I would surrender.

I am more you than I am myself

these days, more you than you;

I see what you see, when you look

at me, my own eyes looking back.