When we write, we write with the hardest hearts, singed raw with pride, but when we grieve, those hearts soften, and words become tears cascading down rough contours and jagged edges. What’s written isn’t felt when hands mechanically type, but when it’s felt, despair cloaks us, and we wish for idyllic unknowns and peaceful reveries….

Wednesday’s Child

I was not born to be happy… No bright star shown down on me When I was dropped headfirst into the world Red-faced, kicking, screaming And placed in my mother’s arms— The only true home I’ve ever known Instead, a dark star witnessed my birth Stepped out of hell’s black hole Took me in its…