How to be an Expert at Life.


Praise imperfections.
Ask questions.

Don’t fear the answers.
Do fear snakes, toads,
and Donald Trump’s hair.

Adore books, animals,
weaknesses, the broken,
and growing older.

Find a love to orbit around.
Have a constellation seeking brain.
A heart that star gazes.

Don’t trip on what’s been
gone for years.

Walk hand in hand with today.

The one seemly not
telling the truth is
the one you should
listen to the hardest.

Pay attention to your
conscience, make
sure it’s really yours.

Know there’s beauty;
in words. The ones
you use and the ones
you leave out.

Read the classics.
Brighten to artistry
Don’t be afraid to improvise.

Listen to jazz while
drinking iced coffee.

Don’t admire yourself
too much, this can
lead to disaster.

There are two types
of people in the world,
be neither of them.

Know sometime what
seems useless is
full of meaning.

Learn how to bend,
not break.

Lose yourself to love,
to madness.
Always carry a suitcase
full of mischief.
A passport of adventure.

Don’t forget to add a dash of moonlight.
Season the nights with heat.

Create the scene.
Live it.

Lose your shoes and inhibitions.

Split the wishbone.

Know nothing important
comes with a manual.

Just because your
spirit is tangled,
doesn’t mean your
soul has to be tied in a knot.

Be full of vigor,
meaningful chit chat
and chocolate. Lots
of chocolate!

Know there is holiness in the missteps.
Grace in the fumbles.

Remain unfinished.
Be the light.

-Tosha Michelle


Erasable Scent of Yesterday


She finally realized it
wasn’t him she missed
but her old ideas of him.
Molded by the absent
years. The feelings lost,
and reshaped in her head,
so many times, that they
became something that
didn’t exist. Emotions.
so foreign they felt

Standing on reality’s
shore, her back turn
to the mountains.
No longer between
the future and the past.
The desire to move
ahead, stronger than
the desire to recreate

Freedom replaces fright.
That which is gone, is
now gone completely.
The sun swelled, and
She slips away on
the stars, leaving
confetti in her wake,
and the erasable
scent of yesterday.

-Tosha Michelle



That fall he carried his notepad everywhere.
And on those crisp evenings,
I felt him shape and merge
words with paper.
Above us an inky sky,
and I longed to be nothing
but the syntax and nuances
taking form in his mind.

I rest my head on his shoulder,
watching the swaying of his pen.
I become one with the shuddering lines,
that won’t be still.
They reach out and caress my heart.
Stalling my breath.
Touching me here and here.
For a moment, I’m what he shapes.
What he imagines.
I glimmer in edges of the dark lines,
until the words splinter from me

The lines, like the writer,
elusive as the stray wind.

-Tosha Michelle

Thin Mints and Unsent Letters


Sharing one of my older poems 
Love is often on a street
that only runs one way.
In the space between
stop and go. You think
if you stand still long
enough, he’s bound
to bump into you.

You wait with your
Doing painful logic
inside your head.
Charting your feelings
in an equation that
never adds up. No
wonder you never got
far in math.

You call out, and he
spits back a thousand
different tragedies.
The shaman in your
right ear says
“WTF, let it go”.
The leprechaun in
your left ear says
“Don’t stop now”.

You climb out of
the pothole you’ve
fallen into, saved by
a rope with a noose
on it.

You’re still alone.
Heart in the gutter.
You pick it up, dust
it off. The wilted
roses blowing
across the road.

You place one foot in
front of the other, only
to find you are on a
moving sidewalk
going nowhere.

You jump off and
hail a cab. In the
distance you hear
a steel guitar, and
what sounds
like a fight song.

You look for clues
and chess pieces
in your purse.
Trying to unriddle
the endnote.

You wind up at a
street carnival,
in a form fitting
black dress, high
heels and garters.

You look up and find
unsent letters in the sky.
Folding the stars into
tokens, you stupidly
hope for another chance
to win that bear.

-Tosha Michelle



I saw you in the morning
from the window of my
running to catch the train
You were wearing your
famous blue shirt, which
is really more green.
You smiled at the
pretty brunette to
your left. Distracted
by her beauty,
you almost tripped
boarding the train.
You were headed to
work. Your man purse
slung over your
Your hair slightly
in that sexy
way that your hair
It reminded me
of my heart
always slightly a wreck,
and in disray over you.
As I was daydreaming
your train pulled away.
Then there was just
the hazy, gray sheen
of the morning, like
unpolished sliver and
the steep buildings
that blended into the
dullness of the sky.

It was you, and the
disappearing train
which shaped the
Departure and
The journey and
the destination..
It is here
our narrative
Leaving the narrator
behind with a memory
that lingers and loves
without reason.
Tosha Michelle 



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

Read Me.

When I began writing poetry again about five years ago, this was the first poem I penned. It’s very simple but totally me. I hope you enjoy it.


In a lovely little book store, in a beautiful little town
there lived a freshly printed book named, Read Me.
She was leather bound with crisp, clean, bright pages
full of depth and secrets to be revealed with a beautiful story to tell.
The little book was filled with joy and promise.
If one listens close enough, you could hear her happy cries of—

Read Me!

Days went by and people would come in and admire her odd but unique cover.
Some would ever pick her up and run their hands along her spine and remark what a lovely little book.
Invariably though they would be distracted by another book that caught their eye
Or be in a rush to be on their way,
as life was hectic and demanding and there was no time to delay.
Still the little book would cry as they walked out the door.
Come back…don’t you want to—

Read Me!

The seasons went by and still the people would pass through
always noting the strange little book. Some would even open the cover
and flip through her pages but no one ever delved too deep. If they had they would have
noted all the words that filled up the pages with humor and despair, with love and disdain; it was
a simple, yet complex tale, a story just waiting to be told.
And every day the book still cried with hope and faith—

Read Me!

Years were gone now and so were the people.
The town had a new book store that offered coffee and the latest best sellers.
By now the little book was frayed around the edges her binding cracked from years of handling,
Her pages faded and yellow.
“Oh, who will read me now” she thought, “I am broken.”
The little book had all but given up hope.
She felt like a prisoner high on the shelf.
Now she only half heartedly whispered—

Read me.

One cold evening as the little book sat despondent and alone,
she was startled to hear the door of the store open.
By this time though she dared not hope that anyone would read her, still, she could not help but be drawn
to the man standing across the room, where did he come from?
Was he looking at her? As he moved closer, the little book had no expectation that he would pick her up.
Surely he was like the rest and would only pass her by or peruse her cover, remark on her
quirkiness and be on his way.
Suddenly, and to her complete and utter surprise, he pulled her down from the shelf.
Oh no, surely after all this time, could it be someone was finally going to—

Read Me!

Like all the others he ran his hands along her cover.
Here we go again thought the little book, but there was something different about this man.
He touched her with reverence and tenderness.
It felt like he already knew her story, but how could that be?
No one had ever bothered to learn her cover to cover.
Odder still, she felt she knew this man and had known him since her conception.
The man spoke softly and said, “little book, I am your reader and I am here to set you free.
I know a secret, and I want you to share your secrets with me.”
Right then and there the little worn book started to feel new again even though her pages were still frayed and her binding still a mess somehow it did not matter now that he had arrived.
She knew at last this man, her reader, would be the one, finally to—
Read Me!


The Pillow Who Loved Me


Every night her bed spoke to her, but her pillow had no use
for language. It was too busy being soft and comfortable.
Its natural state, one of rest. She was clueless to its
aversions and desires, but suspected it feared dust mites,
daylight, and the sound of the alarm clock. The bed loved to
share all its secrets of sleepy heads, and banging heads, and
unmentionable head. The pillow refused to participate in such
tomfoolery. Its downtime was spent inside a silk cul-de-sac
so quiet even darkness was suspicious.

If the pillow had any hobbies, they were wordless, soundless. Oh how she hoped darkness was on to something, and that the pillow secretly carried on a 007 life of adventure; Something sinful and dangerous, wild and ridiculous. A secret life of motion, martinis, fast cars, exotic locations. A place where pillow was always in its prime and at its fluffiest. A place where, when asked its name, you could hear it say, in true debonair fashion, Bond, Pillow Bond.

-Tosha Michelle

At Night I Become Exquisitely Wicked.


My mind is a landscape of hunger, a constant singularity of need. And I’ve nothing to hold you, except my dreams. I latch onto you there in some unsayable location where our bodies take inventory of each other.

You’re the perfect conjecture. I try to make your handsome face a Puritan idea, but get distracted by your Dimmesdale mouth.

You speak to me in tongues, under a ghost light, your
hands made of shadows. You lay your artifacts across my map. I address you in sighs. You follow me down, like a trail. Oh how relentless is my South.

You take up every area of my terrain, cells, lungs,.and those unmentionable spaces between decadence and devilish, contours and curves

I swallow your beauty, and breath you deep inside.
Warmth. Storm. Release. Lost in Orion’s belt and the
makings of one hell of a dream.

-Tosha Michelle

Photo courtesy of Esquire and my celebrity crush James Purefoy

JP, if you read this, don’t make it weird, unless you want to.
Hubba. Delusional, hubba.

The Madness of The Moon.

Hey y’all. Just a note before my latest poem. I’m going to try to get on a schedule with my blog. I will be posting on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Thanks for reading.


Moon, what exactly are you there for? You confound me. I want to howl at you, curse you, defile you. But you’re some kind of ancient voodoo. I can’t seem to get over you. How you love to spoon feed me hope. I want the night back, you questionable ball of light.

I always end up swooning like a girl who’s crushing on a guy in a band. The band’s amazing. The guy’s a jerk. My heart’s eclipse begins with you. I try to catch you, but you thrive on being elusive. I can’t extract a single angle of your countenance.

You’re the world’s worst suitor. You disappear on a whim- so indecisive. Here I sit. Hoping for a whisper, a sigh, any kind of insight. Just trying to solve your scrambled math.

I’ll never have you, but I can write about you. I’m going to write fast and long into your face, drenching you with heat. Something you could never fathom. You, with no promise of sensuality, just what we poets give you. How we like to romanticize you. Ironic, since the sparks belong to forgotten stars. They glimmer with desire.

Don’t even get me started on the sun. Now there’s a real hero. Direct. No BS.

I should write about its illustrious wonder. Sadly, it holds its own appeal (even though it’s so much better than you). I’ve always found the sun’s blinding light to be the enemy of my creativity.

No, silly woman that I am, I’m haunted by quartered light, half coming some nights, half leaving the next. You expect the darkness to clean up the carnage while you turn away, and decide what shape to take. Yet, here I am, on my knees, dreams in hand, hoping for the sly wink of your fucking wane.

-Tosha Michelle