• art,  poetry


    Little thorn,rest awhile in my skin.Rest that I might remember the rose.Rest that I might grieve the summer gone;the summers that never were,and that will never be.

  • light/creation


    You want to turn away, to bury your head in the sand. You want to numb the pain, to fight it somehow but you can't. You must gather your strength. You must look that grief in the eye and say,…

art of trauma