they called her a dreamer,
a wanderer, a bohemian
Aphrodite with words that
cut like a knife; her pen as
her weapon, she was carving
sonnets into the eastern half
of the mountains with only
moonlight and a name on
her lips, while whistling
away love on her sleeve.
she was independence in
July, and as soft as the wind
in late autumn – she was an
attraction to be seen, but like
the promise of the setting sun,
she would leave in a haze, in
a dream set in stone, following
her heart to places unknown.

Fourteen years ago…

I first fell in love with poetry – the ability to create something so beautiful with only my words and imagination. Over the years my hero’s changed from Shel Silverstein to Allen Ginsberg, Kerouac to Shakespeare – but one thing has remained true, and that is the unconditional love I had for the written word. From blue ink smeared on paper to my first typewriter, I have dabbled with rhymes and free-writes, abstract and undefinable prose to expressive and insightful poetry. I have had my heart broken through words, only to fall again.

It has taken years of insecurities, developing patience and honing my procrastination to get to this point – but at twenty-five I am ready. I have words to share and friends to find. Welcome to my own Storylines in Verse.