I have always felt so


like a bird whose wings were clipped

for its own safety

now unsure

where it belongs without its flight.


I’ve always felt


emotions wound

like thread upon a spool

wrapped up and ready,

soon, to snap.


They tell us freedom brings danger

that we shouldn’t step

too far and cross the line

better to hide how we feel

what we want

what we love.


And I fear that

when I fly, untaught

I’ll fall

and face the consequence.

But my wings are broken anyway

I may never see the sky.

My Words, My Solace

This is my latest poem, a reflection on why I enjoy reading and writing so much, and about what words mean to me:


My words, my solace


I have my words

they are my solace;

they come to me

in times of need


when I’m lost

or weak or lonely

I will find them.

My only power.


I like the feeling

of the words; and knowing

that they cannot

come and go


and how, without

strict shape or form

or being, words

are solid.


They’re things

which cannot age

or change their mind

or leave


or lie to me.

The only things

that know the real shape

of my soul.


I cling to words –

a bird upon a branch

(birds never fall

from branches when asleep)


and when the lights go out

still I can see them.

If my hands were tied

still I would feel them.


They’re going nowhere.

Rocks under the ground

nobody sees them

but they hold me up


when all else falls.

They live within me

and survive

when all else dies.