The apartment is too humid
to grow most plants

The aloe plant sits upon the counter,
its once plump, vibrantly green leaves
full of healing salve
now turned brown and flat
and crispy.

It’s not our fault that it died.

The cats ate the new growths
from the top
until they stopped growing.

We tried special water
thinking that the tap
may be causing these plant problems.
For months, the plants drank better
than us
or the dog
or the cats,
but to no avail.

The apartment is too humid
to grow most plants
The dehumidifier does not
do much good.
The aloe plant still turned lifeless
and crunchy.

We tried everything.

So, now,
we’ll just stick
to the few plants
we already have–
the ones that beat the odds.

At this point,
we can’t handle
another disappointment.

Photo by Tara Winstead from Pexels

With today being the finale of National Poetry Month, I decided to put up another poem on this site. If you want to see a lot of the other poetry that I have been posting, you can check my Instagram (or you can just wait until my final round up post tomorrow). Most of the poems from this month have been super short, which is why they are found on Instagram rather than on here. I have a lot of feelings about how this month has gone, and I will write them out and post them on this blog some time during May. They deserve their own dedicated space.


And You Know That I’d Be Wearing a Dress

Through thick and thin

We could walk along the shore,
feel the sand squish between our toes
as the waves lap at our ankles,
gazing out at the mid blue waters
and the light blue sky,
and you know that I’d be wearing a dress.

We could traipse amongst the flowers,
leaning down to sniff the sweet aroma
of the roses and the lilies
as we follow the grassy path
through the garden,
and you know that I’d be wearing a dress.

You could chase me through the corridors of a castle,
dodging the cool, stony walls
and laughing vibrantly the whole time.
You could catch me in your strong arms
and pull me into you,
and you know that I’d be wearing a dress.

You could stand at the end of the aisle
surrounded by loved ones
as organ music swells and the doors swing open.
I could take one step into the chapel,
and tears could start to well up in your eyes,
and you know that I’d be wearing a dress.

Photo by Daria Shevtsova from Pexels


National Poetry Month Update 4

A crimson carnation has its stem
threaded through the button
hole of a black jacket.

Hi guys!

We’re nearing the end of National Poetry Month, and I don’t know how I feel about that. To be fair, February and March were actually my crazy busy writing months because I wanted to have as much as possible prepared. Still, the act of finalizing pieces and posting them has been incredibly fulfilling, even if it has taken up a large portion of my not-so-abundant spare time in April so far.

Here are my posts from the past week:

April 19th

Daisy Chains, Or Lackadaisicality (on this blog)

April 20th

April 21st

April 22nd

April 23rd

April 24th

L’Hiver de la tristesse (on this blog)

April 25th


L’Hiver de la tristesse

perhaps it is the way that life itself seems to disappear

I am a summertime poet;
I cannot wax lyrical about the bare branches
or frosty earth.

Perhaps it is the fact that the blood,
so warm as it rushes through my core
turns oh so frigid by the time it reaches my fingertips.

Or perhaps it is the way that life itself seems to disappear–
to go into a slumber.
How all that is lush and thriving fails to experience the season of brown and white;
it misses the blinding light reflected off the snowy ground–
the only exception being the ever-luscious evergreen shades of pine and fir.

Or perhaps it is the way my hands crack
from the inside dry air
and then my voice cracks
as I try to speak my thoughts
and then my ribs crack
from bearing the pressure of this seasonal sadness
I hold inside me.

My summer self will one day return–
the self that can write about the trees, the dirt,
the self that holds fiery magic in her hands and feet,
the self that exhales vibrant color onto the page,
the self that heals her own limbs, lungs, and bones
through gentle care and patience.

I hope you’ll still be here to see her in all her glory.

Photo by Dimitry Anikin from Pexels

A few months ago, I was having a conversation with the wonderful Alisha J. Steele about this exact poem. This conversation took place during the winter season while I was first beginning to write this piece, and while we were discussing it, I made the prediction that it wouldn’t be finished and ready to post until spring. That prediction turned out to be absolutely accurate, which just further proves the accuracy of the poem itself. I find it so much harder to find beauty in the cold and dark days, but I know it’s there. I just need to keep looking.


Daisy Chains, or Lackadaisicality

I have my own chains

When I was just a little girl,
I asked my mother what would I be.
She responded that I would be easy going,
and so I tried to be easy going–
the chill, cool girl–
who laughs at her cares
and lets them slough off her consciousness
like water rolling off the back of a duck.
But, Mother, I am not naturally easy going.

I sought inspiration for this carefree state.
I read about fictional girls
and their days plucking stark white daisies
from the emerald ground,
delicately combining the stems to make chains
that are then further transforming them into crowns.

I have my own chains–
chains that bind,
chains that loose,
chains that set me free,
but mostly chains whose weight reminds me
of what I will never be.

I gather my own pile of daisies,
and place them in a circle around me–
a floral moat that I lack a drawbridge to cross.
I go through these flowers,
holding them one by one,
gazing at their pale, pure hue,
smelling their delicate odor,
and peeling their petals off,
saying, “It matters.”
“It matters not.”
“It matters.”
“It matters not.”

Photo by Hilary Halliwell from Pexels


Every Poet Writes About Skies of Marmalade

On beauty and banality

Every poet seems to write on skies of marmalade,
about waters of azure and the texture of suede,
but I so rarely see these things in my day-to-day.

My life consists of grit and grime
of cheap laminate floors and of vinyl countertops.

Of cracked laptop screens
And weather-worn shoes

An aesthetic with lightbulbs burnt out
and muddy puddles and unfolded laundry,
pots of dirt that once held plants,
cacti that just refuse to die,
windowless rooms,
bruises on skin that has not been licked by the sun in far too long.

There’s paint stains on the dining room table.

There’s patina on the silverware.

There’s faulty memories and mismatched meter and tongues that confuse themselves
and meanings that should never be spoken aloud.

Wounded egos.




Imperfect families.

Half smiles.

Accidental laughter at problematic jokes.

Heads brimming full
of ideas that will never come to fruition,
poetic lines completely unnecessary to the meaning,
and chipped teeth repaired temporarily decades ago.

But there’s a beauty in banality, a hope in the mundane,
an elegance in all the things that we hold in disdain,
so excuse me if I speak of the ugly in a gilded frame.

Photo by Abdullah Ghatasheh from Pexels


National Poetry Month Update 2

What do I contain inside me?

Hi everyone!

The first full week of National Poetry Month is coming to a close, and, just like on Sunday of last week, I wanted to collect everything I posted from the past week in a single place. So here it all is! Enjoy!

April 5th

Rewriting, Rewriting (on this blog)

April 6th

April 7th

April 8th

April 9th

April 10th

April 11th


Rewriting, Rewriting

This poem is a reminder to keep going

I write a version of the same poem everyday.
It pours from my lips in a whispered breath
and stays stagnant,
its letters etched upon the air.

This poem is a reminder to keep going,
to try–
to try something, anything.

Most days, my brain hopes to convince me
that staying is better,
that out there is scary,
that out there is sad,
that I will get lost if I dare
venture away from safety.

I only ever tell you
about the days when the poem wins,
the days when it drowns out the other voice,
and I stand up and face the world,
mighty in the morning’s victory.

But those aren’t the only days,
so I will keep rewriting, rewriting
until my poem is better
or until I’m better.

Photo by Lisa Fotios from Pexels

If you like this poem, here are some other similar poems:


National Poetry Month So Far

Alone, I hear the wind whoosh past my ears–
a message from my surroundings.

Happy Easter, everyone!

I’m using this post as a way to share everything that I have written so far for NaPoWriMo as well as to specifically share my Easter poem, which first went up on my Instagram.

April 1st

Raindrops on the Windshield (on this blog)

April 2nd

April 3rd

April 4th

I hope you guys are all having a great April so far, and I will have a poem up tomorrow here on this blog!

Peace out!


Raindrops on the Windshield

I’ve always admired those artists,
those poets, those authors,
those painters and performers,
who suffer for their art.

I like to do this thing
where I pretend
that my surroundings are a metaphor
for my experiences.

This led me to a time
where I parked my car in my building’s lot
and just sat in the driver’s seat
for an hour
watching the glimmering raindrops lash at the windshield
and slowly glide down the glass
as the tempestuous gales
howled around me,
thinking about all the times
that I have been sad:
the death of my childhood dog,
the end of a relationship,
my grandmother’s stroke
that robbed her of her ability
to communicate.

“If only someone could see me right now,
if only someone knew what I am doing,”
I thought,
“then they would know
that I am a TRUE ARTIST.”

I’ve always admired those artists,
those poets, those authors,
those painters and performers,
who suffer for their art,
who make their art their suffering,
who live and breathe and die
for their art.

I want to be like them.

But coming out of that moment,
knowing that I had wasted an hour
just to pat myself on the back
about its metaphorical resonance,
I realized that I wasn’t doing it
for the right reasons.

I am vain.
A TRUE ARTIST is their art.
They don’t have to pretend
to be this thing
they are not.

I want to force myself into the box
of an artist,
and that’s not glamorous or avant-garde;
it’s pretentious.
I’m pretentious.

I hope you can forgive me.

Photo by Valeriia Miller from Pexels

Happy first day of National Poetry Month, everyone! To celebrate, I am going to be posting a poem here on my blog every Monday, and I will have a short poem up on my Instagram every day except Mondays. Most of these posts have already been scheduled, so I am hopeful that even as life gets crazy hectic again soon, I will be able to follow through on this promise.

On a different note, I have a different domain now! One without the .wordpress! I am super excited for the future of this blog and my other poetry endeavors, which I will reiterate in my 100th post on this blog, which will also be coming up this month. April will be a whirlwind, but I’m so happy you are here to share it with me.

Peace out!

If you liked this poem, here are some other similar poems: