In my rage, I set fire to the field of daisies – it erupts in a haze, a harsh and dense cloud of smoke. The green withers into brown before it collapses into the ground.

I stare over the destruction, my heart pounding with regret. One bucket at a time, I pour water to douse the flames. The steam floats up and becomes a cloud, gathering thunder and raining down.

It sets ease to the fire, soothes my rampant desire for destruction….

Yet I still feel remorse at what I have done.

A chill spreads and numbs my bones, a frost crystallizing out of the cold. A single sprig of green is left – I hold it between my thumb and index finger. Still wet, but withered, it dies as slowly and painfully as all of the hope I have held in my chest for my trembling heart to lay to rest.

The morning’s sun melts away the icy layer, dribbling into a stream and filling up a void crater. The reflections on the surface match the light in my eyes – they flicker, they dwindle, they fall and they rise. A pool of saltless tears, it holds the echoes that nobody can hear across the vast and empty field. Prayers for mercy, prayers for touch. Her glassy surface never yields – no one comes to touch her.

And what will become of that desolate field? The plows come to mow away what is left of it, a valley filled with tiny, dainty skeletons shifted away in cold and heavy steel. Remnants of the grass remain stuck within the iron teeth – the giant sits abandoned with its duties no longer needed.

Days come, days go, and the grass sprouts again beneath the chained wheels. Tiny flower buds, creeping curiously where the sun called them. Maybe hopeful, though shy of all of the previous destruction. Will they trust the sun again? I do, when it shines just bright enough to turn the sky gold. I fantasize that life will break the casket that’s already begun to form a mold around my arms and legs, and will me to walk, to run again. As I rise from my proverbial grave, rust forms over the steel of the tractor.

And the weeds do the same, confident that strength will thrive again in the valley dense with their fallen men. Like the steel, I’ve grown so cold and impenetrable, my only shield my scarred skin that deflects all of those heavy blows. But the rust is eating tiny holes, making what was solid once again permeable.

Regardless of what I see myself as, I will be broken down, as nothing can’t be wilted – no tower won’t be tilted beneath a quake too powerful for its iron beams to hold steady against. The tractor is pronounced dead when its engine rumbles with dread, and it is towed forlornly out of the field, to no longer be an eyesore to those who pass without much care.

The roots release, they say farewell. They won’t miss that chapter of their cyclic hell. I say good-bye too, as I would say good-bye to you were you to uncover your ears and hear my voice take to the wind. I wish for you to touch me again, as I’ve touched all of these things and left them dead beneath my fingertips.

To the bottom of the ocean, the old scraps sink. The fish flee at the disturbed currents, peaking through the algae to see this sunken behemoth. It slumbers. Farewell. But is that the end?

Still, air summons itself from the tractor’s cracks and crevices and bubbles to the surface of the sea. Breathe. The foam licks the shore, and here I am to watch how unsure the current appears beneath a full moon. In this eerie light, so many shadows loom. In these strange bright beams, I see you – or your eyes, the way they glitter with so much emptiness. Your eyes, the way they hold my reflection, the true one without the bones and skin but the one that’s a casket with a screaming being within.

Where the water meets the shore, there is a dense and silky clay. Between my fingers I can mold it, but it quickly melts away. What can I do to make it stay? As God breathed life into sand from the sea, he didn’t seem to have much left for me, as I stare into the salt and brine and wonder what it feels like to die with my lungs filled with the scales of fish.

But then, you would call me selfish….

Yet, you didn’t seem to care much when I lived. The dead don’t hear you cry; they care for your regret as much as the charred field cared for mine. When the blade has struck flesh, one can no longer apologize, as the blood hears no remorse when it is drained onto the floor.

The clay is whisked away, pushed back deep into the sea, and somewhere it becomes an island – somewhere that island grows a tree. And when that tree spreads its seeds, a forest looms on that tiny piece of land where the sand and sea convene. The roots hold it all together to a tiny paradise, where I’ll set sail to one night and lie beneath the foliage.

The island births a field, one that is filled with daffodils that dance in a warm breeze. The summer creates a dry heat that makes it difficult to breathe. These plants and seedlings stifle me. I feel the fire in my heart once more. Fire. I crave it when I stand on the shore.

Cyclic are my impulses, eternity never resolving to forgive me for all of the damage that I have done. If only I could disappear as easily as a daisy within an ember. Then perhaps, become part of a lake, part of a rain cloud, part of an ocean and then an island. Desolate, alone, with no one to hurt me – save for myself, of course.

I flick my lighter. The peace has run its course. I want to fill the air with rage again, to feel, because to feel something is better than to feel nothing when none of it is real. Elemental and surreal, atomic and microscopic, unheard and disregarded are the tiny salt tears in a freshwater lake.

Just take me away and make me as malleable as clay. Shape me into something that can be loved. Give me feathers, birth me as a dove, and I will never again feel hate or rage or any dreadful plague. And if by chance I did, I would spread my wings and fly away to leave those awful things for dead. I’d rise like an angel with no tears left to shed, and turn my head from the earth below to forever forget regret.

Rain Drop

I see a cloud hovering above the lake, meandering somberly over the trail. The water longed to fly off like the mallards, rolling like cotton across the water. 

Fog, lucky you. I grow weary too. The heavy mist conceals my vision, but the breeze blows it softly until it disappears.

I want to fall into pieces, light and dewy, and take off with the wind at dusk. And after the sunlight illuminates the droplets with rainbows – so as to make my last appearance beautiful – I want to begin again.

 Up in the sky, in a cloud, a brand new raindrop with no memories of the grimy pond, the darkness or the cold. A rain drop won’t grow old. Neither will it die, but it will collide into the sky and become new, unjaded and unabused.

How I envy you.

Bloom Anyways.

“What on earth are you doing?”

The rose bush beside me scolded. She had dropped her foliage and retreated into the ground at the coming frost. Nestled safely in the earth, she snatched what nutrients she could before the soil became dry and lifeless.

I, on the other hand, was not one for cramped spaces. The cold didn’t stop the sun from shining. I dug my roots in and slowly rose.

“It isn’t spring yet,” she grumbled from down below. “And you don’t have any leaves.”

“I know,” I replied undauntedly, stretching a bit more.

There’s something funny about flowers versus weeds. People give roses as gifts, preen and nurture them. Weeds on the other hand are aggressively removed. But now that it was cold, all the living things retreated to warm and cramped places, to return again when the air was sweet and welcoming.

For the rose bush, that meant she would not be tended to, and without attention and care she could not produce roses. The cold made her retract her red petals with nothing around to pollinate them; now she was just a mass of hideous thorns.

I, on the other hand, could do without the attention. I sprouted up laboriously until I reached my peak, summoning my round golden flower and spreading the petals proudly.

“What are you trying to prove? You’re a weed, a stupid dandelion, and nobody thinks you’re beautiful.”

I didn’t care what she said. It’s stressful to be beautiful, as the constant fear of wilting goes hand in hand with the fear of death. Beyond that vibrant facade there are only thorns being disguised by that bright demeanor. I am what I am, there is no illusion. A dandelion, a little golden flower, modest and robust and not afraid of the cold. I love the sun in all conditions; the wind, rain and frost won’t change that.

And being ugly isn’t terrible. I suppose many prefer not to look at me, but in a wide meadow I can be left to my devices with my other golden friends. They’re somewhere far away, but when I’m ready I’ll throw my seeds into the wind and find them all again.

The concept of beauty is so harsh. There are days I do feel I would rather be a rose, but I won’t miraculously become one so I may as well accept what I am. In the end, I don’t mind, as it means I’ll be strong enough to survive the winter. I’ll get to see beautiful things: falling red and orange autumn leaves. Fine, white powder snow. Young children playing, swaddled in thick knit clothes. Kindling flames from new love that comes from being kept close indoors. Scents seeping from kitchen windows of spices and seasonal treats.

And when it’s warm again, my friend the rose bush will have missed these things. She’s blind to real beauty, I think, as are many of the perennials.

Discouraged as I may become when I peek at my reflection in a frozen puddle, I cannot – I will not change. I am not “beautiful”, but what is beauty but a color? Beauty in my world is life and the longing to live it. The breath from every lung, the pulse of every vein and the blood in every heart. The flickering wings of a dragonfly, the silken web of a spider and the chiming sound of a cricket. The deep pupils of the open eyes that silently oberve the world in different spectrums. The morning sun and the hope of a fresh new day.

And the smile, of course, that you push to the surface when it’s cold, when you’re tired, when the world around is harsh.

We are not all roses, but we can choose to be strong and bloom anyways.

Oasis, Oasis.

Maybe it’s my age, but I’ve always found myself attracted to adrenaline, hooked like a fish on a string. But likewise to the latter, the bait was not as I expected – it was fabricated and fake, and it left me with a bad taste. Still, it may be a strange piece in man that is attracted to danger, the risk even without the reward. It’s the boiling blood, the rapid heart beat and the eager tremor within that makes an unsure thing so enticing.

I was like this in love – or infatuation; they all seem to be the same after awhile. I yearned for the startling eyes that would make my heart skip a beat, or a beauty that would cause my head to spin. What about what was within? That’s debatable, as a fickle woman that requirement will change every minute. But excitement – that was non-negotiable, and like a storm chaser I doggedly pursued the tempest.


Heartbreak gets redundant after awhile. That, I must say, is not an adventure. It’s more of a punishment, a stinging slap on the wrist, and a rude shaking out of a wonderful dream I would have rather continued on with. Again and again, I find myself crying the same exhausted tears, made of lessons I had learned so many times, over and over. I tell myself ‘never again’, and yet my heart skips, my head spins, and in seconds I’m on the same track.

The beauty of a storm that seduces man to chase her is her danger – just as I would chase an aloof man. Thunder and lightening warn of consequences, but all I feel is a soothing rumble, all I see is a fantastic show. As the waves rapidly lap at the sand on the beach, and the sky turns a smokey grey, I feel… excitement. I brace myself. I know the wind will sweep me off my feet.


As time passes, I grow so weary. The tears don’t come any more, my heart doesn’t skip any beats, and I grow distant and disinterested in all of the passing storms. Instead, I feel dried up, as if I have lost all the tears my eyes have to give. I feel empty, a gourd drained in a desert. Romance has left me as reality has held my hand, and I wander around in a drought with my head low and my throat parched.

What will become of such a sad girl? I would hope that being alone would help me to find love in the flowers after the rain, but they only remind me that they need a good shower to flourish, but will be drowned by a storm. The roses, the lilacs and the marigolds remind me that I still have a heart, but when they wither in the stifling sun I remember that it’s not the least bit invulnerable to the heat.

The prints I leave in the sand aren’t witnessed, as the wind soon fills them in with more deep gold dust, and after awhile I forget how I ended up here all alone. A rumble of thunder reminds me that where there is rain, there is water, and I turn my head towards the horizon to witness the grey clouds forming.

I can fall again, and again, and again. It is what my heart begs for. But surely the calloused skin would be rough in the fingers of a lover, and he would be repulsed by the scarred thing I had become. He with his sophisticated tastes prefers silk over frayed wool.

Dejectedly, I turn away, but as I look over to the east I see sparkling palms and blue water. A mirage from the heat, I assume, as nothing so beautiful would make itself known in my presence. The surface of the water has the most soothing of ripples; not a single wave. The green of the palm tree leaves remind me of the buds of flowers before they bloom.

How foolish I would be to fall for this, the mirage of an oasis. Imagine those words, coming from a girl who always chases storms! But the calmness and the quiet are the complete opposite of a hurricane, where instead of a hammering heartbeat I feel a drowsy, sedated calm.

If I do need water, and I have these two options, I suppose it would appear to be a clear choice. Still, let’s not forget that old habits are hard to break, and my heart did jump when I heard the thunder.

But the tiny, feeble spark in my heart that I cradle away from the slightest breeze still speaks to me sometimes. She says there is room for love in this cramped space, but it must be gentle enough to not sink the feeble arc that holds it.

With choices given, I choose the calm, the warm and welcoming and soft. Were it a mirage, I would be disappointed, but I’ve faced so much pain before it would only be a tiny knick in a line of deeper scars.

Yes, I do dream of a kind hand, soft eyes and sweet whispers, words that can be heard even through the smoldering heat waves of a drought. In a fantasy world that I bashfully hide away, I believe that after all of my travels, I’ll find my oasis that is not a mirage.

Painting without a Brush

A picture, contrary to what they say, is not worth one thousand words – it is not even worth one.

It is the result of speechlessness that draws out colors on the canvas, as my mind cannot find words and phrases to match the colors that stain the walls.

At some point in time, I tossed out all the brushes, their boar hairs stained in thick layers of paint that I could not wash out. Instead, I opted for my fingers.


These fingers have touched more than the brush can imagine; skin, blood, hair, the human pulse beating beneath thin veins. Yes, I’ve felt a lot, but nothing felt better than the cold fluid as I smear it on the canvas.

I touch the threaded cloth and let it speak for me, but it is silent. As I stare on at the full canvas, I wonder why it doesn’t speak to me.

A picture is worth a thousand words, and yet I still have none.

I smear my palms over the surface, etch in lines with my finger nails, rub the colors between my fingers until they all turn to brownish black.

The face I make is the best and my worst; one with no mouth to speak and no eyes to see. No ears to hear and no lies to tell.

I have never much liked silence and never will. Should I set alight this canvas and start anew, a picture of flowers and rolling green fields?

No, I like my demons, the ones that lurk in my mind. My familiar friends deserve to be brought to life, so I can look at their faces when they haunt me at night.

If I don’t use my fingers, I imagine that the paint will not feel the pulse beneath my fingertips, stemming out from my heart that aches for something beautiful.

Yet again, I make something ugly, like the girl who looks back at me.

I’m never alone, not with you, my quiet creations that line the walls.

If I paint with something else, then maybe I can give it eyes and a charming smile….

But I don’t want my works to lie, so I let them be the monsters that they are; self portraits of the face that hides behind my tortured eyes.