It's dry and gray outside. I'm dreaming of naps and Monsters, despite knowing the chemicals will induce unrest. There's bumps minute in pain, but satisfying in their defeat covering my forehead with puss. Blink up, dry eyes, to rain? Not yet. Skies here love to tease too much of moisture. Deserts don't do me well. … Continue reading Dry
Tell me why I'm still standing here, head tilted back, mouth open wide, for rain to drown me on open land. I'm clinging for strads of atmosphere, but all it is is air. Tell me whether to stay or go when what I long to do is fly. But even if I were to reach … Continue reading Earthbound
How is it a gift to be delicate and pleasing when the winds and storms of thine ungentle cares crush me, demanding, yet hating the coarse strength of bark and root? But should I fall, and indeed I may, I know I'll sprout to bloom again in thine sun; delicate, even if you blow me … Continue reading Flower Girl
I'm not strong. I only yell my hands to still until I reach the lonely corner to curl up and give in to the weakness. I'm not strong. My mind lasted for childhood then broke in motherhood. I demand for sense but it draws blank-- to black. I'm not strong. I wail against the world … Continue reading I’m Not Strong
Each shrine of my art is dedicated to the muse which is you. And each rung of my dreams spools and hinges on your existence. I only started to breathe real air when you stood still to breathe next to me-- perhaps the first to just stand there doing nothing, saying nothing, but just there … Continue reading My Love
My mother always had a inappropriate way about her. To this day I can still see something like a wild, passionate teenager in her that wouldn't look out of place at a beer-bong party or tearing off her top in a wet T-shirt contest. I also know that she would laugh if I told her this, because … Continue reading A Wild Spirit with a Tame Heart
We all reach this point, I believe. No matter what point in your life you are, there's a sort of private, pathetic shame to being an artist. We don't invent the next medical miracle. We don't easily provide a huge house and car for our family, most of the time. And, most of us, rarely … Continue reading When You’re Ashamed to be a Writer (or any other kind of artist)
My eldest son, when he was not quite two, loved crushing the daisies that grow like dandelions in coastal Oregon. He'd yank them up, then crush them with a satisfied "Doh!" Yeah, probably the cutest thing on the whole dang planet. But, then again, I'm his mother. Biased to the extreme. Yet, at the same … Continue reading Remember to Crush the Daisies
I am a horrible person. A 600 pound woman, with flesh hanging like veils past her limbs, gave birth to a 40 pound baby not too long ago. And all I could wonder was how it had gotten there in the first place. ...You're probably a horrible person too.
Friend, what have we come to? I think about sending you a gift without knowing if it's even worth it. You speak of friendship, but how is it that I can still mourn when no fissure has broken us apart? Just breathing and sex. I miss you but wonder how on earth you could still … Continue reading Undrifting Friend
Author T.S. Lowe 