Wounded Healer

Chestfull of Grief

Subdued Heart

Full of Mischief

Scan my Matter

I am a Thief

Don’t listen to Spirit

Just Seeking Relief

Drowning Dreamer

Trauma of Belief

Rivers to Conquer

I am the Dirt

The Soil that Speaks

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You can find it in the drumbeat of a Shaman

Or within trees which possess doorways of hope

A certain stone can transport terrestrials

A mirror reflects what we know

A panorama roars into our psyche

While smells of childhood sear on our souls

The music we know the words to

even though we've never heard it before

We write a poem sacred in its rawness

Visit church...

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Dead wood, no good.

Get rid of the dead 

wood that won’t burn 

like wet yew branches.

People are dead wood,

like soul callouses.

They cling to you,

bring only judgement.

Spouting forth sin,

or their own piss;

its all the same

when you don’t drink it.

They call you wrong,

say you are useless, 

no use for burning.

I smack the dead wood

out of my life,

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