Bless the turns that I made wrong

And bless those right as well

For neither turned out how I’d hoped

Both led me straight to hell

I joke

At least I think I do

As hell can’t be all day

Yet hell can be when hell decides

Or do we have final say?

I’d hope to think we make that call

On how we rule our fate

So bless me on my choices made

And the paths I choose to take

All things Beautiful


And she sang stories in the morning

To herself

As she sat naked on the bed

Rubbing oil into her body

To soften

Soften coarse skin hardened yesterday

And to still prying memories

As they sail the marrow of her shoulders

Her smile, from her mother’s side

Greeted warmly by strangers in winter

And her eyes, of Russian decent

From her father

Untamed and frightened

Wondering why the windows to her soul

Were reminiscent of her father

As two souls could be no further apart

But her voice was hers alone

Wholeness weaving between tones

And she sang stories in the morning

To herself

As she sat naked on the bed

To honour the human made of all things beautiful

And rejoice the unique woman she is

Perfectly Not



My armour

Bullseye to my blade

Imbedding deep

For pains I weep

Hungry teeth skewer muscle

My teeth

Because comparisons hurt

Blood stained spit, trickles

Wiped away by fingers ashamed

My skin welded to bone

Flames I turned upon myself

Ash caught by earth

Onto layers of prayer

Spoken by our grandmothers, for saviour

Yet still we cry

Generations silenced by promises

Morphing contractions, nothing changes

Woman whipped by ‘rear of the year’

Tits out

Swollen perfections

And stretched ideals

Suck on what you see

But so much more are we

Fresh eyes

Curious cries

Birthed from woman

And fierce love

Scares many

So imperfections

Are my sweet spot

To love

Loving what be

Saves from shame

The dampening weapon

When really

Imperfection has no form

No right or wrong

No weak or strong

Only the human

Being as best they can

The woman, the man

So my imperfections


Once my armour to blame

No more

No point to score

I am beautiful

No blame or shame for that.