There’s a poem in me that cannot find words.
It yearns to explain the frost covered grass on a cold, summer morning in Ontario.
The warm sun with a cool breeze. Grass wet with the night’s unrelenting dew.

There’s fury in me that fights to come out.
It bruises my knuckles on red colored nights, holding back a sickening need.
Nauseated with the fact of my predicament. Body hostage with biological revolt.

Like someone stuck in the middle of a change; contorting and bending with the morphing of nothing to nothing.
I shake and jerk to the music.
My teeth, you see.

I must me smiling.

Like no one free to walk a plank; humming and twirling to a tune all my own.
I find my peace; my zen.
My sigh, you hear.

I must be alive.


There’s a poem in me that wants to find a heart.
It aches to tell you of frost covered fingertips on cold, summer nights in this empty world.
The warm breath that tells of secrets. Lovers wet with the night’s unrelenting dew.

Like someone with no one.

Smiling and alive.