Numbness is a very dangerous thing;
It may take away the sting,
but to be cold as ice
is quite a hefty sacrifice.

To be numb is to miss out on love,
to feel nothing at the sight of the most beautiful dove,
to feel nothing at the sight of the blooms of spring,
to feel nothing at the symbol of a diamond ring.

To be numb is to feel nothing at all,
to grow as careless as a portrait on a wall,
to become reckless with one’s own life,
to come too close to the blade of a knife.

To be numb is to feel no pain,
to feel none of the agony of an angst-filled brain.
It is in this way that numbness appears to suffice,
but it is never the answer to an emotional vice.

With numbness comes a new sort of feeling,
a lost sense of self without a chance of healing,
an apathy of agony
and unbeatable gravity.

Numbness is a very dangerous thing;
It may take away the sting,
but to be cold as ice
is quite a hefty sacrifice.






Thorns, though they may appear small,

have a disposition ever so tall.

Harmless though they may seem,

their true ferocity hides just beneath each wicked scheme.


One becomes so engrossed in the beauty of the pedals,

they seem to forget all about those pesky little devils.

Enraptured by the scent, prick after prick goes undetected,

as the attractive aesthetic and fragrance are lethally complected.


The scarlet shades of each and every rose they so adorn

act as a masked foreshadowing of the shades of scarlet to be worn

once the fragile skin has been torn

at the inevitable touch of each and every deadly thorn.


Each prick, while in itself appears ever so harmless,

is a crucial part of a far greater plot of darkness

in which the frenzied fragrance fills one’s lungs with a poison of such lethal affliction

And the pitiless pricks fill one’s bloodstream with a substance of pure addiction.


At the break of the spell, one can feel the sting,

can see plainly the pools of red as they cling,

but the deed is done, and one finds themselves returning for more and more each day,

living at the mercy of the red rose until they reach the grave in which they must forever stay.


The scarlet shades of each and every rose these thorns so adorn

act as a masked foreshadowing of the shades of scarlet to be worn

once the fragile skin has been torn

at the inevitable touch of each and every deadly thorn.

Time Stops

The moments when you find yourself forgetting to breathe,

the moments when you find yourself unable to think, and

the moments when you leave all sense of practicality behind;

these are the moments when time ceases to exist.


To you, in these glorious moments and all of their euphoric grace,

time stops.


The moments when the emotion overwhelms you,

the moments when the heat consumes you, and

the moments when the sound of your heart beating faster and faster is all you can hear;

these are the moments when time ceases to exist.


To you, in these wonderful moments of clarity and of contradictory confusion,

time stops.


The moments of blissful peace that you will always cherish,

the moments of safety, of certainty, of feeling at home, and

the moments of such pure, absolute and irrevocable love;

these are the moments when time ceases to exist.


To you, in these awe-inspiring moments of the deepest and most powerful emotion on earth,

time stops,


and your beautiful sunshine never stops shining.

Finding Joy


full of pain and sorrow,

fall down my face in streams,

accompanied by gasps and sniffles as I sob silently into my hands.



in a room full of people,

a room full of people who make me feel like less,

who make me feel out of place, different, abnormal.



in a place where no one can hear my cries,

in my bittersweet retreat from reality,

but somewhere that loneliness still finds me.



the strongest, most beautiful feeling in the world,

is my only escape, my only salvation,

the only place where loneliness can’t seem to find a crack.



afraid every day that I will lose that salvation,

that I will lose it and fall apart,

that I will fall apart and never be able to put the pieces back together again.



happy to love, happy to be loved, happy to be in love,

happy through the fear, happy through the ever-creeping loneliness,

happy through the pain and sorrow of my tears,


because, in life, what is there to do but fight through the sadness and find the joy?

Finding Joy 2

Often, I was happy. Almost as frequently, I was in pain. Often, when I was in pain, I would bury that feeling as far down as it would go so no one would see and I pretended to be happy. Almost as frequently, when I was happy, I would remember the pain of yesterday and of tomorrow and the happiness began to dim and fade like a drawing on a wall in direct sunlight. For that reason, I cherished and continue to cherish all times of pure happiness and the people who give it to me, which at times includes myself. Pure happiness is driven by inner sunshine and assisted by the sunshines of others, fake happiness is driven by an inner sunshine shaded by looming clouds of swirling darkness, and pain is driven by those very same clouds as they consume the sun, seeming to swallow it whole and intrude on every thought and every action. In these times of pure darkness, often, I was alone, and, almost as frequently, I was lonely. In order to move passed this, the feeling of my sunshine being eaten alive, often, I had to be alone, and, for fear of questions; of tears; of transparency; of contagiousness of pain; of the possibility that, of all those that surrounded me, there would be no one to care; of more pain, almost as frequently, I had to be lonely in my darkness. The complete and inherent grayness, both of being alone and of loneliness, would take over eventually, and it was at that moment that my inner sunshine began to fight back, growing and growing until it was able to break through the clouds and bring meaning back to the world and, more specifically, my own existence.

This, of course, the cycle of happiness, fake happiness, and pain overshadowed by utter aloneness and loneliness, is how things used to be. Now, it seems, there is more hope, more strength, more light, more sunshine, and, of course, more love. Because, when you really look at the big picture, isn’t life always so much more than the darkness it brings? There is a great deal of pain to be had in life, that much is true, but there is also beauty and joy and the utter majesty of the world and its inhabitants to experience and to cherish every single day. Often, I am happy, almost as frequently, I am in pain, but always, I am finding joy.


A judgment here, a judgement there

“Can’t you find something better to wear?”

Judgement is all around

“That’s a nice dress, but don’t you think you could lose a pound?”


Judgment comes in many forms

And always for people who don’t seem to fit the norms

“I’m sure she’s a lovely girl, but couldn’t you at least try for an interest in boys?”

“I know that one’s your favorite, but why don’t you like any girly toys?”


Judgment can be sneaky

“You’d be so pretty if you would just wear a dress”

And you better hope you’re not too geeky

“You’d look so great if you wore makeup more and glasses less”


Judgment can be cruel and blunt

With bullies always on the hunt

“You’re too fat, you’re too skinny, and what is with that pimple on your face?”

“Your thrift store cotton will never look as good as my department store lace”


Judgment can go unnoticed by its subjects

As friends become nothing more than useless objects

“Did you see the way she did her hair today?”

“But what about the hideous outfit she had on yesterday?”


Everyone passes judgment, that much is true

But judgement is wrong, just as the sky is blue

Let people be

And then you will see

That there is greater happiness in a world with no judgments hanging in the air

The Last Leaf

I’m sitting in my favorite chair, the one by the front window. I clutch my hot chocolate in both hands as I stare blankly out at the sparkling white expanse of the front lawn, taking in the gentle grey of the sky, the steady flurry of the giant, white flakes, and the way the snow has slowly begun to fall from each individual tree branch.

As I sit, I see a leaf blowing stiffly in the wind. Some time ago, I would have marveled at the way this leaf had somehow found the strength to hang on to its tree through the fall months and into the new year, finally succumbing to the power of the first winter storm of the season when it could hang on no more. Now, I wonder why. Why did it cling so stubbornly to its branch? Why, when it would have been so simple for it to fall, crunching sharply under the foot of a little kid walking home from the bus stop, or the tire of a car moving slowly over the slick pavement, would this leaf endure the pain of holding on?

I used to love the snow. I loved the way it seemed to appear magically overnight, never making a sound. I loved the look of the sky just before a big snowstorm, and the color of the clouds as they graced the world beneath them with a blanket of glistening white. I loved the way it smelled, the way it tasted, the way it felt to take my gloves off and feel each individual snowflake melt into my skin. I used to find myself walking out into the yard, compelled by the majesty of the winter wonderland it had become, and just standing there in the cold, admiring the complete and utter beauty of the neighborhood as the snow fell.

Now, though I still acknowledge its magnificence, I am able to see past snow’s gentle beauty. Now, I look at the snow as it continues in its relentless descent to the earth, and I see the ugly that joins its beauty. Now, I see the woman who slips on the ice and hits her head after work. Now, I see the car accidents that come when the temperature drops and the streets become deadly sheets of ice. Now, I see the homeless that remain stuck outside in the storm with nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass. Now, I see all that it has taken away from me despite the way I once cherished it.

Now, I miss the person that I used to be. I miss the girl who ran outside without a jacket just to stand and dance in the snow and feel it on her skin. I miss the girl who would sit in this very chair, drinking hot chocolate from this very mug, cozy in this very blanket, and stare at the snow for hours and hours, feeling only joy at the sight of it. I miss the girl who saw beauty before ugliness and love before hate. I’ve tried and tried to get that girl back, but now, as I stare out at this brave, stubborn leaf, I can see that she may never truly come back to me.