Tosha Michelle Talks About “Everything I Never Told You”

The lovely Roberto was gracious enough to invite me to participate in an interview for his blog.  It was truly an honor. I had to laugh at his literary greats comment though. How very kind and humorous.

El Noticiero de Alvarez Galloso

In my series of interviews with bloggers and writers, I invited Tosha Michelle of the WordPress blog “Everything I Never Told You” to be interviewed and she accepted. It is great to have one of the literary greats of the 21st Century and to discuss diverse subject matters.


Tosha Michelle is the author of “Confessions of a Reformed Southern Belle: A Poet’s Collection of Love, Loss, and Renewal” and  “Self Help to Self Harm : The Dubious Guide To Life, Love, and Relationships”. We are now going to get started.


Tosha: I hope everything is well with you. Everything is great especially since I wanted to interview you about your blog. Here are the ten questions which you can answer within a week at your own time.

1. What is the purpose of “Everything I Never Told You“?


View original post 645 more words


For Mr. Modigliani

Hello lovely people. Below is my latest cover. This is dedicated to the dashing and dapper Mr. Modigliani If you aren’t follow him, shame on you. If you enjoy erotic poetry, beautiful art and insightful musings, his weblog is for you and you and you and yes, even you.

and now for my caterwauling

and for some real coolness



I was always clingy
with my boyfriends.

I never really knew
my biological father.
He left when I was

I never got a bad grade.
I did the right thing, but
not evey time.

I never told my mother
about that time I snuck
out to meet my first

The fault that is never
mine, but always is

The feeling I get when
I get something right.
The despair I get when
I don’t.

I’m not okay with being
alone, but I crave

There is an exact ratio
of sugar and tea in
every glass I drink.

I hold onto books,
even the ones I don’t
read anymore.

I’m always nervous
in new situations. I
worry about being

I get excited over
vintage anything,
but mostly dresses
that sway on my

I like how his eyes
stay on my form
wherever I wear one.

I spent $123 dollars
today at the Antique
Mart. I bought a lovely
Mod Print Dress and
a sequins party dress.

I don’t like parties.
or sequins.

The number of time
I obsess over anything,
over nothing.

The way I hoard my
relationship and worry
he will leave me.

I purposely call him
just to make sure he
is home.

How much I hate
doing this.

How much I
hate doing this.

-Tosha Michelle

Willfully Wild

If you’re going to love,

love wilfully and wildly,

like a leaf on the wind

soaring out,

with abandon.

Burn yourself through

for passion.

Make an altar of greater than.

Praise longing and

its insanity

Love bold men,

the ones like red umbrellas

with strong wooden

handles, and a fancy inscription,

big and deep, that makes you

feel like the daintiest

of ladies out for an

afternoon stroll,

his sheltering arms

keeping out the misty rain.

Let every idea you have

be love.

Study him like

you would the curve

of the horizon.

Follow your instinct,

lose the pattern.

Go where he goes.

Don’t let the sun disappear.

Let it swell

and put him first,

draw him closer,

until he believes in you

and the sky trembles

when you touch.



into his eyes, his thighs,

the pulse of his being.

Fall into ripeness, rightness,

until time is stripped away,

and your soul is cast in

forethought. Forethought

brushed in red and heat.

Never to be an afterthought.

If you’re going love, love

willfully and wildly until

you are spent, until the stars

shatter over the white tips

of pillowcase as two lovers

fall out of God’s mouth into


-Tosha Michelle

Still The One

They said, “I bet they’ll never make it.”
But just look at us holding on
We’re still together, still going strong

(you’re still the one)
You’re still the one I run to
The one that I belong to
You’re still the one I want for life
(you’re still the one)
You’re still the one that I love
The only one I dream of
You’re still the one I kiss good night

-Shania Twain lyrics

My cover for The Lonely Author and his wife Allie, Anthony and Jersey girl, John and Terry

Stairway to Somewhere?

Here under the tent, we say
our final goodbye. Soon your
coffin will be lowered into the ground.
The crowd folds like fall foliage,
with promises that it will get better
and death is not the end.
What will they remember of you?
Your smile? The broach you always wore?
The photo of you on the beach
in your Sunday best, with sunglasses
as stylish as Jackie O’s.
Please send me a sign,
a popcorn kernel of hope
that your spirit lives on.
That your soul is in a peaceful
place. That days and years
from now, we’ll find you again.
I question the sky. It reflects
back light then dark. No
definitive answers there.
Yet still I search eternity,
for you. This depth of feeling
keeps me pondering infinity.
This anguish spurs me on.

-Tosha Michelle

F. Scott and You.


F. Scott Fitzgerald speaks

to me through gin and

chandelier music while I

hibernate in the winter

wasteland of my mind.

No longer mourning

the absence of you.

I’m going to fill up

on vitamin D. D for

determination. D for

deadly intent to create.

Let your snow fall.

I’ll wipe the frost

from my eyes.

I’m going to lock the

door. Watch as time

breaks away.

Disconnect for awhile.

Hang out with the bones

in my closet. I have an

uneasy relationship with

the past. I’m tired of the

unrest. I’m going to put

on my red heels, bob my

hair, and reconnect with

the skeletons.

We’ll dance the Charleston

through every room

until I’m dizzy from

spinning, until I am

unghost and unfettered.

The bones shattered.

The windows of my mind

clean once more.

It’s not about what was.

It’s about freedom.

I pour sugar on the

future and swallow time

in the last shot of gin.

If you ask me

about happiness,

I’ll give you my

wounds instead.

Singing the song of

the swan.

I stick a bandaid

on my heart and

run off with the

jazz quartet.

Fitzgerald nods his approve

as we shimmy off into the

golden- on the edge of a

cliff fall night.

-Tosha Michelle

An Introvert Goes to a Party.


Tonight, I’d rather be home
getting lost in antique spines.
Craving the casual, yoga pants
and T-shirt. .Ditching this party
and dress. I can’t relate to
razzle dazzle, hoity toity
The desire for loud. My
symphony has always
been quiet.

These people
are a splinter in my isolated
hope chest for one. They
are a complex Allegory of
celebratory nothingness
Outward they glimmer
Inward, just a flicker.

I’m my own mistress of
distraction, mapping out
a poem in my head,
as some fool
in a too tight corset
tells me stories
about her latest boyfriend
who has a love for the
voluptuous and shallow.
The latter is just
an assumption on my

As the clock ticks
inside my head,
sounding more
like bedtime, bedtime,
than tick tock. I note
the exit, I must reach
it before I’m tempted
to try hemlock.

I escape into wallpaper
border and sit down by
a napping cat. I stencil
my name on a gravestone
of banality and toss my
party dress off a bridge

I dissolve into particles
of light and reemerge in
bathwater of blessed
tranquility. I find kismet
with my bath mate, the
one I love-Solitude

We celebrate lavender and
quiet things. Afterwards,
I put on a night gown
of silence and
climb under a blue
comforter, under the
bluest of moon.
Finding serenity
in the stillness

-Tosha Michelle

Missing You

“Everytime I think of you, I always catch my breath
And I’m still standing here, and you’re miles away
And I’m wonderin’ why you left
And there’s a storm that’s raging
through my frozen heart tonight”

My cover of “missing You” by John Waite (For Alex)

Find him here:



I have hazel eyes.
Let’s assume
for this poem
his were blue.
That sickening
shade of too
pretty blue.
You know, the
kind that women
get lost in, or
some cliché
like that.

He had women
of every description.
They never tired
of his discourse,
or his bedside
tricks. Magic they
said, too enraptured
to notice he never
took his hat off.

He was always
bitching about the
harpies beating
on the door.
Trying to dislodge
the shingles from
his roof of

Did I mention his
eyes were a
misogynistic blue?

Yet, he always
wanted another
harpie, and then
another, and just one,
no, two more.

Pose struck. Happy
to be their God of full
frontal. As long as
he reigned over
a kingdom where
the women came
with pulleys and
tight wires of
rope, he could
manipulate and

Did I mention his eyes
were blue- like the
coldest shade of

Never alone on
Valentine’s Day blue.

Never heard of
commitment blue.

The kind of blue
that makes women
blue. Drop a Valium
in a shot of gin
blue. Hose to
tailpipe blue.

I look in the mirror
and see eyes,
mostly green with
flecks of dead leaves.
Nowhere near as
mesmerizing as his,
but at least they
aren’t wishy washy
blue. Empty as my
icebox blue.

I take one last
look in the glass.
I see the soil of
ready to bloom
in fiery eyes.
The rose of
resolve taking

I walk outside.
Broken slate
shingles cover
the barren grass.
A waterless stone
birdbath gives me
a gleaming, hopeful
look. The wind
whispers its
approval. I take
a breath, nod to
both, kick a few
shingles and walk

These hazel
eyes are done
with his blue.

-Tosha Michelle

Listen to Jar Of Hearts by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud