Posted in Being Vulnerable


I use to believe I wasn’t creative

But now I know my mind is my color

My paint brush and paint

It helps me draw a world full of pain and love.

Hopes and hells.

It is my art.

And I’m grateful

For its existence.

Posted in My Poetry

Inspired by the famous rambler

Do you ever dream with poems floating in your head

Like little cigarette butts in the ocean.

Do you ever see them taking shape from the smoke they create

Or is it just a dud potion.

I wonder sometimes what would happen

If I let them take form

Would they be unique

Or just the norm.

But I also think, would it be cruel to trap them

When they look so happy floating there.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Nature is free therapy

When I was a kid, my mom would try to teach me to look up.
Look at that squirrel, Brooke!
Look at those flowers! They’re naked ladies!

And I would.
Every time I would try to see what she saw, but I just didn’t care.
Her love of nature kind of bored me actually, but I pretended to love it for her because I saw how happy it made her.

But then I moved here and everything seems to have a different color to it. Everything seems brighter, newer, and maybe even more magical?

So I started looking up more.
I started seeing the birds, the clouds, and the trees the way she use to and I finally understood what she saw.

It was love.


Posted in My Poetry

2 am thoughts

I woke up to the flame

The fire dancing between your fingers

You giggled as I stared

Scared you would burn

But you never did

You and him

Always knew how to play between the lines

How to push boundaries

Face fears

You both laughed in the face of danger




But I never did

Instead, I was your Zazu.

Scared of getting caught

Scared of getting burned

I toed the line

Until one day the line burred

And I became the flame

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Journal 1

I haven’t written here for a while. I guess I’ve been avoiding it. I tend to do that when I’m in conflict. Even through my past therapy lessons, I still run from my emotions. I guess some habits never change.

But I’m here now.

Writing. Thinking. Plotting.

I want to be consistent in my endeavor to be vulnerable.

I want to be more fearless.

So I’m gonna write.


And it’s going to get annoying.

But I think I need to do this.

I need to find my pain and forgive it.

Because this blaming avoidant behavior isn’t working.

So here I am.

Promising tomorrow I’ll show up.

Love you.


Also, we got a new dog. Say hi to Buckley.

Posted in My Poetry

Dear Diane

I feel aligned with you.
I see me
In you.
When I first met you,
I knew.
I could feel your energy too.
The perfectionism, pride and potential
were swimming around you.

Me and you.
You and me.
We’re bonded.
Don’t you see?

Our past pain
Has brought us together
In hopes
that one day
We’d find to be,
What I would consider,
The key.
For your forgiveness of your trauma has unlocked the mystery.

Posted in My Poetry



I hear

They run

Not walk.





Why do they run down your face

Instead of glide




Are we to assume they are not


Or are we to assume they aren’t able?

What if they only could crawl?

Would that not be worth it all?

So let them crawl, glide, swim, jump, skip.

Describe them with intention.

Don’t assume they need tension.