no trill of sirens
no screams of kids or hoodlums
the woods are silent


I’ve been having trouble falling asleep in my parent’s house these last few days. I’m used to falling asleep to the city din of cars, sirens, screaming people, dogs barking, et cetera.

I suppose I’ll get used to the silence again, eventually.



there is an entire
half of me
that I don’t know

that other biological side
that unknown order of
genes and mysterious
strings of DNA

things I don’t
understand about myself or
recognize in me
when I look in the mirror

this upturned nose
this dramatically low
resting temperature
as if I were meant
to be somewhere else
and maybe
someone else
or at least
someone else’s

I debate whether
I ever want to look
into the eyes that maybe
gave me these green eyes
or study whatever other
manner of inheritance 
that has gone unnoticed
or ignored

but mostly I want
someone to blame
for this darkness
inside of me

this emptiness
that I’ve never
managed to fill

Nothing to look forward to about winter in this city

Today’s prompt was elegance.

If you’re a poet, and you’re reading this, I have a question for you –

Do you ever edit your poems after you write them?

I find that I don’t. At all. Like, practically ever.

It’s not that I don’t think I can find a way to say something better, or in a better way, it’s just that there isn’t much planning behind my poems.

They are just thoughts in my head coming out on pages or the screen.