I’m Alive, I Swear

And pretty damn happy.

I have written some stuff I want to share with you guys again. So thanks for sticking by, especially in the drought.
If you don’t want to wait on the blog posts follow my tumblr at overturnedinkwells.

Mentally, I’m healthier. Emotionally I’m healthier.
Physically, I’ve been side-tracked, but I want to get back into yoga to clear my mind and stretch out the stress.
I’ve started school again, so that’s another reason updates haven’t been as frequent.

One thing I want but have yet to make time for (and should be chastised for) is reaching out to my devotions with my loving and gracious God. I value my Christianity, but do not always practice what he preached (I need to work on language, easy to succumb to).

But right now,
I am happy with my life, I don’t mind being alone, I’m not wasting effort on anyone who doesn’t make effort/time for me. That easy.
Who wants to be in my life, will make a point of it. And if I don’t want to put effort, I’ll make that known.

Here’s to happy readings.
Thanks for all your love and your commitment to this blog.

Much love,

Bombs and Butterflies

lay over me like London fog in 1940;

With my steel bunker heart
and your air-raid touch,
we are a mix of
ground-shaking explosions
and butterfly heartbeats.

The minute our clothes dropped
to the floor like bombs,
and our propeller
mouths met,
I realized
this was a losing battle to begin with,
and thank God,
because I never wanted to win.


Break over my body
like sunset;
I feel your teal
melting my yellow
and I am pushing down
morning star
while pulling
your hands across my horizon.

Meet my molten mouth
with your lunar lips
until I am seeing stars behind my eyes.
You have the universe in the palm of your hands
and you paint it over me in galaxies.

The only Milky Way
I’m swimming through
is between the river-like flow
of our two bodies
as my hips circle like Saturn’s rings
and you rove over my plains
like the freckles on my stomach
are the once existing stream
found on Mars.

I crave for you to make
me North Star:
highest point of reference
but instead I puddle into Northern Lights,
leading other lovers
toward celestial bodies
they will one day call

You and I
are the love child
day and night


The scent of smoke comforts me.
The act itself does not.
But isn’t that the way of things:
that we find beauty in the tragedy
until there is fatality and
we are left looking
at our own mortality like it
is a glass orb
we are cradling
in the palm of our hand.
There is nothing beautiful
in blackened lungs.


So you call me a hypocrite;
hold me up to your mouth and
watch me dangle from your lips.
Called me breath-taking
just to make my lungs constrict—-
but before I digress,
let me tell you there is nothing
gorgeous about a girl
whose lips turned blue
a slave to not nicotine,
but you:
is it’s own kind of sickness.


You let me sit in your car;
and I know I did it just to be near you.

And we listened to the random songs
you played off your phone
and I felt myself
sinking into your
passenger seat
so that way something that belonged to you
would know the feel of me.

And after all this time,
I still shouldn’t be looking for someone like you.

I know that.
I know I matter even less than
a little bit.
I know if you were to keep up
with the number of poems
I have written with you in mind,
you’d be sick of it.
(And that’s not counting
the alternate realities I’ve made;
but I always kept you “taken”,
out of respect
for your relationship.)

I’m finding the irony
that Tracy Chapman was playing
and “Fast Car” hits me
like piano on my chest
in the key of “K”:
A note that doesn’t exist.

Like our relationship
that never was.

But just so they know
all the smiles just might be fake——
for the times she said
I have low self-esteem
for the way I’ve deemed myself
not worthy of respect
but rather hands all over
and smoke-filled haze,
know I am still willing
to be at your feet
if it means I can somehow stay.

If it means that once again
we are the fitting pieces
to each other’s crazy.
If it means somehow,
there is once again
a you
and a me——

I’m still trying to figure out
my reason
for waiting.

Greenhouse of Glass

They tell you
that my skin is too sacred
for you to dwell in,
like my body is a house made
of glass and they don’t want to see
traces of your soiled hands
smeared against the panes.

I tell them
my skin was soiled
due to their pious ways long before
you ever touched me.
If anything, my body was a rotting
garden, and you were uprooting
my doubts and dirtying your hands
with my once wicked ways.

You tell me
my skin is ripened fruit;
scab your palms against bark
as you reach for me.
Brush your fingers along my cheek
like one bite could equal paradise
and you are so undeserving.

I want our endless possibilities planted on my lips,
I want my words to twist
like ivy
toward you, toward this,
an us, no matter how dirty
your hands or my past
may be.

The facts remain as these:
I bloom under your touch.

You are my garden of plenty.