Bell JAr

Like a butterfly 

A medley of colors

A delicate twine of body and spirit

A gossamer dream, soft and dusty

Beneath the sky of a bell jar

Inspired by Sylvia Plath’s Bell Jar



These skies, they don’t talk to me anymore

Not the way they used to

This rain that falls,

it no longer melds with the tears on my face

Grief and relief, flowing side by side

I no longer search for hints of happiness in these winds

My lungs no longer feel tight.

The weather has changed. 



The hours rush by
And day turns to night
And night turns into day
And we exist
In a muddle of crowds, aspirations and emotions
Craving for a change
For time to still
For the day to dawn
For the storms to pass by


Everything seems well and good.

Until you remember, you have always held you body

as a beacon heralding harm

And darkness resides in corners you don’t know, waiting to creep up into your heart

And your heart, it’s an iron walled cage

with a gentle, sensitive soul.

It hurts and it hurts so it twines iron around itself, keeping you in, holding you close.



I think love scares us because to be without it, is to be empty 

And we are so scared of losing what makes us feel special. 

But I think we forget sometimes, 

that what you love never leaves your side.

It is immortal; It stays

as a wisp of memory hanging on your lips, waiting to be uttered

resting beneath your eyelids, teasing your imagination time and again

In the sounds, and the voices and the music that you hear

dancing to tunes you didn’t know were ringing in your head.

Wishful Thinking

“There has to be a way to fix everything 

a magical glue that sets the world right 

every broken heart, every broken dream 

every broken bone, and every broken link 

magically glued to work right 

Everything lost found again 

Everything that hurts, fixed with time.” 


You are so broken, it’s almost beautiful.

Like a cracked porcelain vase

A memento of the great beauty it was

A reminder of the great storms it has passed

And time will not put you together again.

Because that would mean undoing its art.

But for each little fragment of yourself that you have lost

You are a little closer to who you are. 

A Note

A Note

A note to the writers and dreamers

Someday, you and I will be running along beaches with the night breeze running through our hair. Someday, we will be lying carefree in chaise lounges with the soft touch of the sun in our face

Someday, we will be sitting by rivers and reading our books; without a care of what is to come or what is to be done. Someday, the smell of rain, of spring and of summer, will fill our hearts and we will be content

Someday, someday very soon, the tide will turn and the world will be ours again