Don't tip me over -
I am your feather...

You drafted my heart -
you trailed from my train...

Tonight, I vowed to myself I would
not slip into the night, defenses down...

I need to be more grateful; mother already
comments that I complain about the mundane...

I wanted to cry, summon the emotions to cascade
down my cheeks and sink into the dry soil...

They're not the beautiful voices of mythology
who trap sailors with sweet cadences, no...

Change- in combat with morals,
not always designed to win...

I can't seem to settle for familiar,
because I always end up sitting...

"I wanna be yours."
You're not at the other end of the receiver...

Here, I am the little prisoner,
hunched over a cherry wood table...

I tried, tried to shelter the silence,
but these voices feel they need to...

She didn't know she could erase paint
with the will of her predilection...