Treasure Chest

By Amy Thomson

Mind control,
head too full,
start to leak,
though I’m not weak.
Pour through lips,
first little sips,
then waves storm out,
rosebud pout,
dancing along your eardrums.
Peeling thumbs
kills the hums
drumming on my skull.
You pull me in,
your skin a sin,
your chest a treasure,
such pleasure I find
in your heartbeat.


Another Day at the Masquerade

By Amy Thomson

The closet of masks

sparkles with gleaming teeth,

beneath empty eyes,

hollow lies

lie lurking.

Always working

the perfect angle,

trust is mangled

and coated

with sugar bloated,

empty words

that fill your ears,

crawl into your brain,

center of disdain,


Conversation involves

crafting your smile,

spitting saccharin lullabies

from your gleaming teeth

catch your reflection,

caught the infection,

staring back at two, hollow eyes.


Field Tending

By Amy Thomson

Construction booms

shake the rooms,

rattling, rumbling, reverberating,

perforating the hour.

Deliberating the ultimate power:


how to slice it just right,

keeping future in sight.

Still learning from the past,

too late to cast

necessary wisdom,

intoxicating system

breeding bees

to make cheese

a tight squeeze

in the schedule,

a sexy tease,

a little hair pull.

Clumps of hair drown the drain

the wicked pain

of lost dreams,

blown away with kites,

a bittersweet sight,

aspartame bite.

Can barely find time to breathe

without choking on guilt.

The Empire we’ve built

starts to wilt.

Time caresses valleys around

Mother’s eyes

regrets disguised

as her children’s tears dried,

refused rides,

became brides,

she tried

her best.

The red giant will still

set in the West,

even after we’ve gone,

The East will bear dawn.


It’s Okay To Like Yourself

By Amy Thomson
Distorted reflection
plants seeds of infection.
Wine-stained eyes
see through lies.
Stolen glances,
Red Maple branches
frame two hazel ponds,
forming bonds
with myself.
Learn to love
the freckly galaxy
that dances on my nose.
I don’t hate,
even appreciate,
my mismatched tits,
full of wits.
One Hawaii,
the other, Lanai.
Promised eruption,
media corruption.
I resist,
I persist,
I consist
of 126 beautiful fucking pounds.
Sounds like vanity,
it’s really just sanity.


By Amy Thomson

Naive gasoline
soaks childhood dreams,
yearning mother’s beams
as I’m tearing at the seams.
A bright burst of light
quickly settles in the night
as I start feel the fright
that my life will not take flight.
Now, I never feel alright,
and her smile starts to wean,
cover pain,
try in vain,
just to gain
a mother’s love.
dreams disjointed,
once anointed,
now dethroned.
Pick up the phone,
heart debates,
can’t relate,
clear my plate.
Now she knows
I’m nothing great.
Drop my classes,
join the masses.
Burnt out star
reduced to char,
missed the bar,
now sub par.
Always was
just because
I was her dolly,
act of folly.
Sold acceptance
for identity,
lost serenity,
emotional amenity.
I crave that blanket,
despite suffocation,
incessant persuasion,
Amy erasure,
at least I could face her
eyes with pride,
should have tried,
pushed aside,
failed to abide.
Far from calm,
rejected psalm,
I dropped a bomb,
I’m sorry, mom.