The Runaway Muse


A personal blog

Goodbye, sun.

Sometimes I wonder

Why it is that

Some of us grow up

While others

Simply come of age.


Filed under: Photography, Poetry


If to be is to live
and to live is to breathe
than what is a mountain?

If to be is to know
and to know is to think
then what is a daffodil?

If to be is to sleep
and to sleep is to dream
then what is an earthworm?

If to be is to feel
and to feel is to love
then what am I?

Filed under: Poetry


She hates the fullness
more than anything else,
except perhaps the
She tells herself that this
doesn’t make sense,
that perhaps she is only crazy,
after all.

Frowning, prodding
the rounded mass of flesh that is her
abdomen, watching as it
expands before her eyes,
larger and larger until she
convinces herself that has
swallowed a cow.

Heavy, oh so heavy.

She longs to be empty,
weightless, because only then
can she hope to be filled.
There’s no room left for filling,
not like this.

Curling up on the
patchwork quilt her mother
found at a thrift store,
she squeezes herself tight,
making herself a
ball, one that becomes gradually
smaller, until at last
it becomes completely

Filed under: Poetry, Uncategorized

The house where she grew up

She remembers the
smell of daddy’s shoeshine
and the pungent
kick of his aftershave
when he said goodbye.
She remembers the
feeling of standing in the
middle of the road
as the snow blanketed
she existed alone
in a white muffled void.
She remembers when
was a simple affair
for an untainted child.
She remembers
innocent indulgence
and living without regret–
just crumbs, and
wishing there was more.
She remembers the
house where she grew up–
dancing summer shadows
across lacy white
windows, never without
She remembers it all
if she closes her eyes
and goes back to the
time when she was

Filed under: Photography, Poetry

And so it begins

Fill me from the inside out
shape me into something new–
radical, different.
Set me free
from the chains that
I have blindly accepted–
until now.
Restore me.
Lift me up in your
powerful arms and
banish my demons–
send them scurrying
in mortal fear.
Give me a new heart–
I am ready.

Filed under: Poetry

Futile to be Solitary

Some days she feels like leaving,
shedding her apprehensions like
dusty scales off the back of a
leaping and bounding away,
far away, until
the voices that call her name
have faded to butterfly
Oh, how glorious to be alone!
And yet, so strange
that she should feel this
in her soul.
Like nails on a chalkboard,
she cannot forget
who she is
and what she is:
a person who needs people.

Filed under: Poetry

The art of being

Let’s put on hoodies and
walk beneath the stars
talking about anything
or nothing at all—
let’s just simply be.
Let’s make clouds with our
breath, and go nowhere
at all, because none of it
Let’s smile in the dark, and
listen to our footsteps as
they lose themselves to the
Let’s pretend we’re the only ones
to hear the crickets sing
as they make cricket love
beneath the stars.
Let’s walk and talk and
forget about time,
because tonight is too fleeting to

Filed under: Poetry

And life goes on

Turning, always turning
on the same old wheel
with the same old people
drowning in ignorance
but not always bliss.
Shutting their ears to the
screams all around them,
blocking them out with
jingles from commercials and
the Top Ten.
Everyone has settled
like dust on a shelf
to wrinkle
and wither
and wane
into the living sleep of

Filed under: Poetry

About the girl

Christina. 18. College student. Lover of words, sublime images, fat books and skinny jeans. Dislikes melting snow, the color pink, and procrastination.

This blog is an outlet for my jumbled thoughts. Thank you for stopping by.

Runaway-Muse @ Flickr