Loud. A Hammer for a Screw

Loud was a personality trait

Loud and proud.

The silence quicksand

I fought.

But sound,

Is so often the tearing open

Of emotional scars

An auditory,

“That isn’t my reality!

See me!

Hear me!”

Because I expect

that all society sees,

At best,

Is “inspiration porn”

And I cut off my nose

To spite them.


My face gushes,

And my tool

Destroyed my purpose.

Before I could leave the lectern.

With a patch on the injury,

I must sell the tools that no longer serve .


Process and Pricing

If “just writ(ing) down what comes”

Is the cure for writer’s block;

I must relapse every other day.

The flow has yet to strike,

I hear of a non-discript ‘zone ‘

But, much like science fiction,

It has no address or code.

Thus, empty white electrons

Whose shine demands space,

Give me vertigo

Until blanketed

by the hollow black vomit

That slides into a thought

Or a memory.



I ache at each,

Soothing, or stabbing

The best or the most destructive,

The viability of the ending,

Matters less than the pages rising,

And collapsing on their brethren.

When all have stopped, I continue.

If only in my aching

for every single one.

Empathy and trauma so woven

There is no separation.

And yet, suddenly,

I see the power in each piece

If I can bring about hegemony


Trauma Didn’t Scream

I know the roots of my family

Are marked with scars

From a demonic thirst,

Drenched with boiled realities.

I know the best of our twisted humor,

And the jackson-polick splashing of rage.

I know being victim and witness affected me.

I can tell at least 9 therapists,

And read their reactions,

As though they were reading a book a book horrors.

I grow and progress carrying my baggage,

Forgetting that some traumas don’t two-step or tap,

Some move throughout existence

As a silent ballet.



I don’t need motivation,

I need her child to start my day.

When I stumble out of bed

I can hear that youthful spirit,

Occasionally echoing

within the tunnels of my being.

The promise of accomplishment is carried by excitement

When I walk alongside

Where i must move through motivation,

willing to carry all the luggage


Where I Could Be

The girl inside is aching

She wants to see Shania,

Live for the first time in two years,

Alas! A greater calling has stricken.

A purpose past myself.

And though I am not so naive

As to believe she will know me

As anything more, or less,

Than a dancing speck in the distance,

But, I do believe she can appreciate

the reason I chose better law school grades

Over a night of pure joy.

But, why do I have to pay, to learn

And serve my country on the bench?


Contemplating Myselfies

I take selfies because I am proud,

Of a time, an accomplishment, or a merger.

Those memories we want to hold,  yes.

But more that eyeshadow my Anti-dexterous hands let me have

…free of clown face.

The shoes I could manipulate my feet into,

Within 15 minutes

And those mergers

between the self I feel,

And the self I see,

The mergers I was once dying to see

And would have killed for.

I see those more and more now.

They still feel like I am catching magic,

And I still take pictures.


Watermelon Memory 🍉

Watermelon is summer with brothers and sisters

And the roo.

The one who screams,

The berater, batter-and-chief.

And watermelon is winter in another town.

Hermiston melons.

With a worshiper of Strappy

Flipping me like a pan-ee-cake

In the cool school morning

Silly and giggley and

“This is how you love,

this is how you stand up for yourself. “

So, even in law school I am the vocal one,

And I am an ego booster for anyone.

Fueled by bipolar fruit at breakfast.


Me, and Marathons

Life is a marathon,

Not a sprint they say.

But I can do neither of these things.

I would like to suggest instead,

Life is a game park.

At times hammer games,

Usually I am the ball in the game bouncing towards the hole,

Yeah that one.

I don’t know the name anymore

Because I have had so many impacts with the walls

But the persistence is a lot more violent

Then a marathon.


Who Are We?

If we are afraid of the dark?

If our imagination is closed

To the knowledge of the stars?

Who are we,

If we do not challenge

Our own minds,

Walking the unbeaten path of thought,

Because we already get to beat other people.

Who are we,

If we cannot sit with all that we don’t know,

To learn more about it?

It is up to us to decide.


Veterans’ Day

I will never understand why

There is one day for veterans.

Why do we need a day to show the respect

That is rarely shown the rest of the time.

Does one day make up for

The half-assed efforts every other day?

We have national doughnut day!

Doughnuts make us happy,

But, all they give is bad health.

Now, I am not implying

That we need to get rid of those golden-glazed-glories.

But, we could at least make it

“national give a vet a doughnut day “

At the very least.


Let This be The Beginning

I keep trying,

Because one day

If I keep working

I will be able to say


And I will be proud of this struggle.

I will look at time.

Finally aware of its shift

Behind my back.

The shift from drowning,

To fierce swimming

Will come.

Challenge will remain,

But I will master waves of life.

Let today be the beginning.


Don’t Just Keep Pushing.

I have a habit of trying to ask for help

Only until I am tired.

I give up as a means of energy savings.

In the short term.

But I pay,

Because it costs either way.

But in the end,

The options are two:


and at best barely hang on,

Or pay up front in time,

And succeed, slowly.

But succeed.


Let There Be Darkness

Monday I was exhausted,

Because of the dropping iron.

Tuesday one word: menstruation.

Wednesday, I don’t even remember.

And Thursday, oh fuck Thursday.

School lockdown,

Migraine number 1,

Two classes,

And a grade that made me cry.

I am better, I have been giving,  working and trying

And this grade, one of few

is none of me.

Moving forward I reapply and push forward.

Hours later, when I break for food,

Power goes out.

And somehow I was hopeful.

Friday I woke.

Unable to sit up,

I vomited in bed.

Vomited so hard and so often,

Everything came out everywhere.

The sound,

The light,

The knocking of the electrician,

It was painful.

I vomited again.

Took it off,

Crawled back to bed.

I slept,

For 24 hours.

But let it be known,

My Ms. Mercy Obsidian

was merciful.

She never got angry that I didn’t feed her.

She waited

purring and keeping me warm.

Which is enough to keep me going.


Past-Tense Imagining

As with so many other things,

I had an image in my mind’s eye,

A simple one,

The struggle existed,

But I managed to ride that wave,

And in space there is no crashing on the rocks.

But, my extra eye bares a free flying lash in this reality.

I can see,

But reality is muddy.


Wake up Dancing 💃

I hope you can find a day

When you can wake up

And dance on top the sparks of chaos

For no other reason,

Than the striking of a mood.

Not for being alive,

Not for the fiction of should,

And not as a matter of pity porn.

The morning may be cool,

The sky dark,

And the song you hear

Will be fire you swallow.

Nothing will fit your perfect

But in dancing, you will find,

A temporary sync of your rhythms,

With the soul of the world,

And the change.



My life, the yo-yo.

Always fishing for the weekend.

I start each week with a plan,

A good one, I’m always sure.

Until it fails,

until I get overwhelmed,

My plan blown up and every piece flying.

I am lucky, I remind myself,

When shrapnel doesn’t hit my gut


Just because my plans fracture.

Even when they shatter

Control is mine.

Because I control the changes I make.



I took a “testing” test.

And boy did I need it.

Because I needed to know

How unprepared I was.

It felt like a canon full of shrapnel to the brain.

And here I was overly confident,

Because #priorities.

Pick a class,

Any class,

And run with it.

Two hands can only hold one book.

Time to put the old one down,

And catch the rest up.

But I wouldn’t have looked back

Unless I dropped the testing test along the way.


The Lessons Missing

Listening to a true crime podcast,

Because I never want to be too comfortable.

I think of the criminal, so called,

And wonder what they would feel

if their family were victims?

And then,

What would happen if children,

Before school became a burden,

Were asked to sit with uncomfortable feelings.

With a simple question,

Can you imagine how it feels???

We want to make children stronger,

But we leave this gapping weakness

So that when feelings overpower,

We are helpless to them,

And thus there is no shortage

Of true crime podcasts.


Curiosity in Moderation

The only reasons today is different than yesterday,

was a dental appointment.

thus lunch was two hours late

and I laughed hard enough

at a sly mockery of my cat

so intensely that,

for a few seconds I lost control of my evacuatory system.

my productive routine in the limbo corner

getting lower and lower beneath my standard bar

and I woke up singing regardless,

I have never been able to reproduce these days

of joy, for joy’s sake.

I cannot discover the variation in the equation

which feeds my energy, persistence, my patience,

and my happiness.

I can only monitor patterns

and honor these treasures

by blooming, brief as it may last,

in that light.



I laugh at the extreme,

and thus I laugh at myself

all the time.

I have disregarded death

and felt nothing for its power

even rushed though fluorescent halls

into emergency operations,

outcomes uncertain.


perhaps because I wear my wounds

like branded clothing,

and dripping blood

is my name-drop.

I fear the power of minds

beyond my own,

because the perception of dependence

dehumanizes me

disables me

far more often

than any body part

and I am always battling

the endless weight of mistaken perceptions

I may not die at the muzzle of a law enforcement officer,

I will live, with my vocal cords crushed repeatedly

by new people every day

who share no uniform features

and I am not the only one

but one of a fraction,

able, and extreme enough,

to draw attention to

another uncomfortable -ism


Weak of The Living Migraine

I skipped a beat

because my body took *another*


this reheated corpse,

grew fingers

deep in her right eye socket

which spent two days trying to make room

upon an unproductive torture session

of forty-eight hours,

the digits seemed to uproot,

and migrate a few inches west

to press down between both sockets

the best of both worlds I suppose

signals of nausea and fatigue.

were sent along every roadway of this body,

on horseback, because even in the best neighborhoods,

the post is gutted.

the deliveries kept waking me,

11pm, 2:30am, 3:20am, 5:15am, 6am

the good news is,

this is their winter home

the bad news is

the other three seasons of my body

only last 28 days!


Past Tense (AKA Group Psychosis)

My eyes catch on the tents we pass

I am one fish in the ocean,

and each tent is a hook

holding a member of my school inside

as they writhe for warmth and

fight for life.

It is nothing but chance

fickle and random

as an unbitten opportunity

that separates us.

I can’t convince myself

that these tents are part

of the context of this moment,

Even though more effort was taken

to hide the forest with the trees before

because tension, and division erases

the need

if the symbiotic creature kills the only host-fish

they both sink to the bottom of the pond


The Exercise of Life

If picking myself up

after life knocked me flat

was exercise

I would be a bodybuilder at this point

when I was young,

I sought the strength that is confidence

in my interpersonal relations

the ability not to live in the consciousness of a burden,

not to fear the letdown of letdown and loneliness,

to find safety the voice of my desires and boundaries,

without the sound cracking,

whenever I called upon it,

the muscles in my legs are narrow at best,

but when someone asks how I manage to wear

a smile, as I speak of dingy moments,

and how it can remain strong,

I tell them.

I have taught that muscle well,

for it is the only one strong enough

to lift me up when I am knocked down.

it does sometimes step aside to allow for pain and loss

but my muscles of sorrow have little stamina.


I Don’t Need Children

I went from a child peacemaker

To enter adulthood through a hall of invisible terror

I would have clicked my heels three times,

there’s no one like old Misty,


there’s no one like child Misty,


there’s no one like farsighted Misty,


Once through that ten-million-mile hall

I have no desire to turn around,

even facing the Sisyphean task

of constantly dressing wounds

of so many siblings,

trying to hold a mother’s tidal wave of chaos at bay.

As I tiptoe through the start of middle age

I am facing the possibility

of a life without children of my own,

but, perhaps I have more to offer than DNA

whose only limit is the span of my entire life

Though that is not the choice I will ever make

I will not feel empty if it is a choice made for me.


I Despise Erasers (or I did)

Have you ever written, drawn, or otherwise created something that you put hours, or longer into? Did you reflect on your favorite part and excitedly tell your test reader about it, only to find out that they don’t get what you’re trying to say, or see what who you drew? I can’t be alone!

I had two main reactions toward the negative reactions of others, and even my self, which held me back for a long time. First, and especially with writing, I responded by getting defensive or angry. How could “they” understand the picture I’m drawing for the reader? (This was my initial reaction to feedback about the overuse of metaphor!) When I went back to reread the manuscript I started to see them though! Metaphoria, so to speak! So, even though the manuscript has taken 30 months to write, I am editing, changing and plain deleting sections because they take away from the story.

My approach to drawing wasn’t as defensive, I knew I “couldn’t draw.” I could start out ok with a single eye but, when the other eye didn’t look even, I didn’t re draw, I kept going. my hope was that by not hounding for perfection, I could avoid burnout. The end product was always disappointing, and I gave up on drawing for many years.

When I tried again early this year, I started with a low pressure class online. I took my time, I practiced, and I erased and redrew. I liked the instructor. (JW Learning on Skillshare.) He was realistic about mistakes, and redrew parts in his videos! So, I stayed with it, I’m still practicing, learning, and trying again when I know I can do better! Truthfully, erasing and reforming my written imagery and my sketches keeps my desire burning! Time is my friend, so I hang out with my projects as long as needed instead of rushing to complete. The results are fantastic!

What is your experience/ approach to drafting?



I prefer explosive anger if I am going to be mad.

I burst, reel, and collect myself,

reflection and redemption are easier

than vendettas or the crackle of annoyance

Anger has a purpose

in fueling growth and change,

but the little flares I get of it

over things I have no power over

are draining in spirit,

and time required for acceptance

some people are mirror opposites

because bursts of rage would destroy them.

through the destruction they would wrought

and it leads me to question my disability

is it a blessing or a curse in that light?


Revenge of the Body

I tortured myself for years,

and became an in between,

barely human,

without an identity

without a self

for years, decades, their was no timbre,

no dance in my happy stories

no, regret in my lies

no hormones in my body

and no fight in my heart

and still I have revived

but, body remembers,

and takes vengeance on

the slightest change in self now

natural and healthy,

to stop a return to sickness,

or to dole out revenge

I am unsure.


Everyone Says, And Few Attempt

Everyone says “You can only control your actions and reactions.”

but not how much work that takes.

It means making choices, in the middle of a trillion little moments…

okay, maybe a thousand,

to challenge you’re own interpretation,

Each reason for why,

even the ones we don’t like

because the other person,

is different,

not necessarily a threat

and our bodies alone are bias

to improve the speed of our judgment

to keep us safe

it is our brain’s job

to think critically,

and compassionately.

before we act on instinct

those who don’t try are inhumane




for you I have a love,

like water,

like elastic

in your name I stretch,

to encompass you

and all of your overflowing trauma,

to hold what you cannot,

even when it snaps and stings

I may be thin

but I am that circle unbroken,

if I do nothing else,

at my distance

I will witness your destruction

and hold that story

as a light to those who want to remain

nocturnal in the face of the fire of mental illness

zero percent contained

beyond the elasticity of love.

This Doesn’t Feel Like Success

But concepts are not sensations

Fearing, crying, crashing, aching Doing, creating, achieving

Feel like the slip of a pencil under too much force,

Ghosts, existing in no reality but our own now

Bodies we’ve yet to bury,

But when we lay them to rest

The pencil marches forward

Sucess drawn and shaded,

Full of color beyond appraisal.

Longer Stays

I can live with my cat

For two years+ alone

I can tell you goodbye,

After you come to lunch.


With each hour it gets harder.

Goodbye after 24 makes my tongue a brick full of needles.

Needles that cannot sew my tears inside.

Goodbye is every fear,

Every pain,

And every tension

That never goes away.

Every bout of major depression, on its worst day,

Rise back up

To choke the wind out of me

For hours and days

After I’m already blue.

I tell my self this too shall pass

I will become strong enough one day

To make this pain no more than a flicker

But each goodbye, punches back up to remind me who I am.

The Buddhist Open Mic

A last minute addition

Uncomfortable with organized spirituality

Of any kind

Reading a poem before intermission,

Too stuck in her head

To notice the gasps of strangers


“I lost to the intermission snacks”

While heading to the truck.

One compliment flew between my ears,

Followed by the buzz and clumping

of every voice…

yes, I wrote them, for a chapbook

I never put a price on the book..$5?

Well, I didn’t bring any copies to sell

It would be unfair to sell the copy i used today.

“He borrowed $5 from someone to get my book and he wants an ‘autograph’? Shit…”

Breaking through the huddle

Took 15 minutes

There is hope for this writer yet…


a concept tarred and feathered by gender

Before we realized children’s well-being suffocated under the tar.

Like the slow pull of a sticky bandage from skin,

Best interest, now skinned and raw

We walked backward

Half time for any father who seeks

Even a man set to destroy.

In the name of efficiency,

We half-heart our goal

And no one looks good.

Small steps, back-forth-and to the side

Lead children nowhere,

Best interests are unique,

and have no short cuts,

And no blankets

I Have Not Forgotten

Rabbit holes are everywhere

And I fell into one today,

She lol’ed at “sharp as a knife”

Cheering for me,

as I did nothing less than survive.

When her electrons came to me,

Her message hit softly,

Burrowed deep,

And today, like many others,

The stabbing, burning,

of life without San

Blooms into my consciousness again.

A flower that never dies

If I Were not Climbing up a Mountain

I would be falling down an embankment.

As hard as changing is

It is my rebellion.

Taking up more space with more knowledge.

The smallest piece,

Though disregarded,

May well be my most powerful tool.

I am not naive enough to attempt remaking the wheel in one lifetime,

But am mischievous enough

to put my ideals, long held,

Straight through the middle of

The tattered spokes of the laws of othering

So that they take root.

I am ready to tangle.

If the Best of me is True

How am I still lost in the mirage

Of memories that do not belong to me?

What if the best of me is true?

Is it the glitter of the mirage that cuts through the optimism?

Is it cutting at my optic nerves?

Or is it just distracting?

All of this to say,

the thoughts don’t need to disappear

Just take a back seat

In a slinky car.

Over the years, the distance will grow

Between you

Snapping back from time to time,

And, yes, it burns

But I promise,

You do too,

Hotter than that boiling water.

I will do anything for you to succeed,

Even though it might mean

watching you trip on your slinky from time to time

Sit out your pain,

like the hostage you are right now.

Act like the best is true,

Even when it isn’t

Arrest the hostage taker

Tie him up with that slinky

And the mirage will fade:

Fog against sunbeams

My Mind

Won’t mind its own business

Jumping from the Truths Lane and Fear Lane.

Kidnapping me from good relationships

Under threat of

“What if I…”

The binds are relaxed,

But I am trained

Not to test fate,

When fate is stressed.

Rarely do I slip away quietly,

But sometimes I do

Let’s hope momentum

Breaks the bindes that once trained

Let momentum radicalize me.

The Rubber Sh*ts hits the End of The Tunnel

I am a little girl

With big ideas

And a stunted,

Yet fully grown body.

And I could be representing clients

In the coming months.

I’m not kidding.


The little idealist,

Tripping on my fury

More often than my fears now.

My mantra has never been

“I will win and they will lose,”


“I have the power to change this.”

that’s true, even when the little girl in me

Is panicked and raging

Against the injustice

that may come because of a failure.