She waits for him in crashing waves,
With each passing ship, she calls his name.
Her siren song, so sweet to hear, 
Draws curious travellers ever near.
But it is not these men she craves, 
She drowns each one beneath her waves, 
And gifts their hearts into the sea, 
And asks “please give him back to me.” 
But on the sea he disappeared,  
Now salty water hides the tears
That flow into the ocean’s depths, 
A promise made, but never kept.


Call Me Grass

Do not call me flower,
For I am stronger 
Than their delicate petals.

Even the rose,
With blood red blooms,
And thorny stems,
Is easily crushed
In brutish hands.

No. Call me grass.
For grass may be burnt,
And grass may be frozen,
Grass may be trampled,
And grass may be torn, 
But still it grows.  
Breaking, unapologetic, through cracks in concrete.

So do not call me flower, 
Delicate and sweet.
Call me grass,
For I will keep growing, always, 
In spite of you.