Porcelain Doll
A broken, beaten, porcelain doll
with dark curls and pale skin
emerald eyes and rosebud lips
revealing nothing and speaking none
because her eyes are closed
and her mouth is shut
and her curls fall limp
and her skin is cold
and she does not move
because she’s afraid to live
and afraid to die
so she does nothing
because it’s easier than something
and it’s easy to be broken
and beaten
and silent
and limp
and cold
and still
and afraid.
rate this poem: 
physical memories
On the inside of your palm;
one faint pink indention
On the outside of your thigh;
two bold scars
On your arm just by the shoulder;
three jagged lines
On your arm just by the wrist;
four leftover slashes
On your heart, deep in your chest;
ten bloody marks
that are dripping
as if weeping..
rate this poem:
Slow Motion Rush
I’m breaking down beneath my breath,
Your craving hands unclose me.
Conflagrant conversation, a hundred summers,
Melt the holds below me.
The whispered din behind closed doors
Pulls us both below,
The waves of what we’re waiting for,
Crashing on the lamp-light glow.
Our turning hands together tangle,
In knots that tie themselves,
Around, around, in every angle,
As shadows dance on bookcase shelves.
Your outline blurs my twisting frame,
Your face a reddening blush,
Green eyes flow about as flame,
Dancing this slow-motion rush.
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