Photo by James Sutton on

my love for you…

is written on my face
but you can’t seem to read me

emanates with intensity
but you are immune to feeling me

is expressed with every syllable
but you don’t know how to hear me

is right in front of you
but you are unable to see me

i must not be enough



death gifted me a new hierarchical level
a transition of status
deserved? maybe
definitely earned
especially in my family

accidental or age-related
expiring and passing the torch
a normal consequence of living
most times it’s hard
in my case, a good thing

finally having autonomy
the benefit of losing people
who held me back for years
death seems a good thing
#fight me

resentments let go of
feelings resolved
the chaos and drama over
by dying they
helped heal my old wounds


Deep scars embedded in our psyche.
We were marred by loved ones we should call traitors.

We feel the need to hide the frayed nerve endings deep inside.
The repeated shocks to our system and sensibilities can make us mute.

But let’s not go quietly.

Our enemies expect silence from us.
But we deserve better than staying restrained.

Not screaming to the rafters calling out their crimes, buys them a better life than they are due.

The one we were owed.

Be strong, be loud and let your wounds heal.

Where I’m From | Poetry Exercise

Where I’m From is a poem by George Ella Lyon that has become a popular poem to mimic. I got this idea from Zarah Parker – Memoir of a Writer.

The title is pretty self-explanatory. Write a poem (or in whatever form you want) about where you’re from. (Here’s more about it.) Let me know if you try it out!


I’m from a city split in two.

I’m from a disorderly
MP – hung-over,
working his assignment
by the wall.


I’m from a pretty, insane
blonde German
girl who caught
the eye of that uniform.

I’m from the connection
of their bad choices.

I’m from an alcohol-fueled
tryst, an act of
jealousy-inducing sex.


I’m from the place
of pastries named
after what I am.



Ich bin ein Berliner.