Haikus: 8.7.18


To what do I owe

This unique pleasure, this pain,

Of being alive?


I have always been

The type of girl who writes her

Life with ink and pen.


I just kept waiting

To be good at art, writing,

Speaking, learning, life.


this summer has been dim.
i wake up and the day
stretches out like a grey
cloud bank overhead.
i wish for better weather
(it’s august, after all),
but i can’t help feeling
that summer isn’t really here
(and neither am i).


When I open my mouth to speak
or lift my hands to write
or ready my body for movement:
I fear becoming a mimic.
I fear being inauthentic.
I fear making something
that maybe isn’t mine after all.
I fear being a creator
As I fear having been created.

Am I real enough?
Are my words mine enough?
Am I enough?
Still, I speak and write and move
and wait
and see.

Walk on

Here’s your sign:
Don’t let someone’s expectations
guide your path.
Your pace belongs to your own feet,
and you can walk as long or as far
as your soles can carry you,
but it’ll never be as fast as they wanted.
It’ll never be the route they chose.
Walk on.

For a friend

I imagine your feet hurt,
from walking;
your back aches,
from carrying;
your hands hurt,
from holding on.
I imagine it’s hard work
to hold it all together –
all the everything
of one life entire.
Just know that
I am walking.
(Like you, I need new shoes.)
I am carrying.
(Let me know if I can carry you.)
I am holding on.
(Let me know if I should hold on to you.)

On my tombstone

Here lies
the shell
of a girl
who went
on a journey.

Here lies
a child,
turned woman,
turned wild thing.

Here lies
what’s left of
a pilgrim.

Here lies
a bit of earth
and above it,
here flies
a bird.

Scroll to Top