Springtime Dreamland

The crisp Spring air seeps through your open bedroom window,

Cascading over the windowsill like an ever-flowing waterfall.

The lush air seeps into all senses,

Its purity awakens and brightens the soul,

Sending the heartache, despair and doubt far beneath the icebergs surface.

Acceptance, bliss and content come flooding in as hopeful whispers with the cool air comprised of only elements of clarity.

In even your deepest of subconscious states, you come to truly be one with the cliche artifacts that come along with a breath of fresh air,

A new level of gratitude that almost redefines and manifests as its own emotion.

A molecular structure built of miracles,

A foundation representative of new beginnings and rediscovery.

Lush alabaster linens capturing every unique curve and distinguishable feature of your being are tousled by the immaculate breeze as it floods over every inch of your velvet skin…

This air engulfing your bedroom and being…

The same air that holds the innocent and enchanting power to propel a magic carpet,

You are swept away like a leaf that escapes the fate of a dark Winter,

To a place where you have mastered the complex equation of the fine line between self discovery and selfishness.

A Dreamland created in the wake of the universe’s greatest test to your contentment,

Where you become one with the all encompassing untainted air of purity….

Its origins that of the Spring air that seeps into your bedrooms window and occupies your senses as you sleep soundly, in the Spring haze of your Dreamland.


Reading Like a Writer

💻 📖 Hey there y’all!..📖💻

My apologies for going radio silent on you for a while. Most of my creative writing energies have been focused on my first project for my MFA program. ✍️ Taking a classic (my absolute favorite classical Gothic narrative “Wuthering Heights” by Emily Brontë 📚) and a contemporary novel (“The Little Stranger” by Sarah Waters 📚) & focusing your on reading comparatively through the lens of a writer seeking out literary themes, techniques and conventions. •

Feeling completely engulfed and positively overwhelmed with the culture shock that this MFA program has already provided me. Taking on this challenge with diligence, pride & gratitude 🤘🏼 •

Needless to say I am feeling very inspired on this fine Sunday…so keep your eyes peeled for a new piece this week!

The Cyclical World of Forbidden Emotion

Living in a cyclical world of misunderstood perturbation;

Where even the moments of bliss are dusted with the ashes of despair.

Despair that lingers in the deepest corners of the unconscious mind;

A mind plagued with dark spaces filled with the echoes of unanswered questions.

Questions lit aflame by the sparks of acrimony and unfaithful betrayal;

A betrayal that ripples through the veins like a blood born pathogen,

Creating waves of emotion that surpass the realm of basic understandings of human sentiment.

A ripened individual stripped of adulthood, broken down to the vulnerable child within.

Stuck in a non-universal dimension;

A dimension created in the wake of the curse of empathy;

An existential place created by this brave emotion, so unattainable to the corrupted human consciousness of the present.

In this place, time stands still as you remain cemented in your vortex.

Human souls pass you by in their rapidly buzzing, blurred livelihood.

They get to live while you simply exist.

Going through the motions, breaching every hurdle, yet attaining no satisfaction or bliss…

Recurring disappointment.

Happiness still evades,

All senses dulled to their weakest capacity,

Making the metaphorical perception of a shattered heart achingly palpable.

The evidence of this wound so apparent;

Like the breached purity of fresh linens splattered with the blood stains of despondency.

The souls who endure these sentiments too afraid to speak these words,

Out of unadulterated fear of a deeper rejection…

And so they fade into an apparition;

Nothing but a ghost living in the cyclical world of forbidden emotion.

Greener Pastures

Moving on.

Moving on does not equate to inhumanity,

So please darling, set your guilt free.

Send it far beyond the southern depths that even flocks of birds in the dead of winter have never seen.


Moving on means utilizing the strength to choose the happiness over the hurt.

Moving on means taking the standing up from the dark, dirt ridden floors of despair to the illuminated promise of greener pastures.

Greener pastures that represent what it means to find serenity within ones self, within the process of becoming the being we so achingly strive and desire to be.

The protective barriers of these pastures do not allow for the sorrow of burning memories filled with holistic confusion and pure pain,

But only for the realistic memories worthy of who we chose to be in those times of the past and who we are destined to become.

The reality isn’t always a step forward into the light, but a civil war that leaves you crawling on your hands and knees on the dirt floor of despair, fighting with all that’s left just to find salvation.

Salvation is the moment you choose the path planted with the seeds of self growth,

The moment you find the balance between selfishness and empathy.

When equilibrium sets in, salvation is immensely attainable. Finally.

In these times we must rely on the power of these greener pastures that gently call to the mind, singing the melody of this healing promise.

Grasp onto the notion that moving on allows the mind to become susceptible to this bellowing call of potential joy.

A new siren’s song that leads you into the arms of a broken, yet lovely and healing masked figure you will inevitably uncover to be yourself.

This joy is the key to the door that leads to self discovery, to a world with no regret or distain,

But to a world engulfed with nothing but the healing bliss of greener pastures.

Eternal Muse

Falling in love with you was my purest salvation.

You were my muse,

The only reason I needed to write poems and stories of love that reaches the stars and comes full circle back to the existential connection of two souls combined as one in the light of adoration.

You built a world of eternal life that was worthy of the permanency of ink on paper, a world that raised me high and far above the grave threat of oblivion.

Never again would the impending doom of writers block grace the complexities of my mind and spirit.

But then you decided that despite the unspoken expectations of sacred intimacy, that it was time for you to go.

To leave me behind.

With no muse to tame and focus the complexities surging in my now broken mind and spirit.

Little did I know that your absence would bring more.

More words, more poems, more emotions simply spilling onto the page, corrupting the surface with the dark, bleeding stains of ink.

Now, I write. I write until my hands ache, cramp and distort.

The darkest opposition to writers block.

The heartbreak left within me sparks an anguish that surges onto the page like a spark of electricity or a bolt of lightning striking the most sacred of rare trees.

The muse of serenity and balance you once were transformed before my eyes.

You are my muse.

But now you are a muse of despair that forces words to flood through me like that of a tsunami blinded by the shifting of tectonic plates beneath its very surface.

My physical, mental and spiritual being are frozen smack in the middle of the wake of the impending wave.

I am drowning in these words, I am drowning in the opposition of writers block.

Because despite my attempts to canopy my heart from the storm you induced, you remain my muse.


The memories of the late nights that turned into early mornings… the passionate love that erupts between two so intertwined and bound it was almost painful.

A love that could not be known to be told by the simplicity of any words ever created beyond this time and space.

These late nights turned to early mornings are now filled with the now more vast memories of you.

A whisper turned a scream that unwillingly and eternally will ache a deep pain of loss.

A loss so angry, so purely excruciating as the devils soul is black. A loss that leaves a mark, a part of her that will always belong to you….That will change the way that she loves, that she lives for the rest of this time and in the next…

…And to the galaxies beyond the worlds we know.

But right here, right now in this world, time and space…these memories hold all the power. They invade the sacred sanctuaries created in the midst of the chaos of her mind.

Existing and persisting without free will in the matter, these memories a constant threat that can disturb the calm waters filling the empty spaces pd darkness where she hides the heartache.

The shifting of tectonic plates sparked by the cruel turn of events within her photographic memory, creating a tsunami effect in its wake.

Each day a new challenge to out swim the cruelty of the speeding waters as they come to life, threatening to destroy the structures she’s rebuilt.

And without fail…

These exhausting days turn to nights that continue to evoke the memories that forever burn inside her…memories of those nights that turned into early mornings…

Rosebud Photography
© Rosebud Photography

Bullet Creative Journaling

I have recently begun my journey with “Bullet Journaling” and using creativity to express myself on the day to day while keeping organized and true to myself!