The poems that I write are either beautiful
or dreadful
The relationships I have burn me to the core.
And then like the phoenix from its ashes
Of course I am reborn.
Am I the Inquisition in the mirror | on the stage?
Are skeletons in closets real?
Is there a reason to look back, to face
Regrets before the next ordeal?
Do I leave churches grounded to the base?
I don’t ask myself these questions anymore.
I just carry on, and carry on my sloppy grace.
donika emille 