Little Boy Blue and Mary Quite Contrary


Dear Past,

It’s been awhile. I come waving a
flag of peace and unarmed.
My arsenal is depleted.
I have no time for hate or malice
laced air.
I imagine like me
you want to live in peace without
the threat of guns and
claws. To awaken to the sound
of serenity, not bombs going off
in the distance.

I hope hearing from me doesn’t cause you pain.
Frankly, I miss you. Your theatrical ways,
always leaning toward a Shakespearean tragedy.
No time for much ado about nothing.
Although, everything had to be as you like it.
How you were
a master at parlor games and word play.
Your eyes a depletion
of fallen leaves and green tea.
Hair as dark as a grackle.
Arch so charming, fencing with
unseen stars. Little boy blue,
and Mary. Mary, oh, so contrary.
How our garden did grow.
Shells that pelted the ground,
causing wreckage and carnage.
It wasn’t all welts and hell.
There were days when light swelled
and sliver bells grew.

But i digress, as I climb a slide of memories,
backwards with slippery hands.
My legs lose traction,
my lungs clog with dust.

I end up on the ground negotiating
with my untapped toe.
Trying to reclaim the beat with
half recounted facts
and nostalgia’s false sense of rhythm.
Holding a few cards in the hand you deftly dealt me.
Beside me lies a map, marred
by revisions.
that reads let it go. Let it go.

I stand up, and realizes there’s a
tear in my heart, that I
mistook for my sleeve. I walk through the open gate,
ignoring the stained alleyways,
cobble stone,
and street lights shaped like a question marks.
The scent of orchids lingers in
the tired air.
My soul fighting off bees and
the counter winds.
You, dear past, will always sting.

-Tosha Michelle


Willfully Wild


If your going to love,
love wilfully and wildly,
like a leaf on the wind
soaring out,
with abandonment.
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

My cover of The Eagles “Desperado” for Sunny Day

A Town Called Phenylalanine


Dedicated to J.R and P.S. (CCC)

He was a town that should
have come with a warning sign.
“Abandon all sanity, those
who enter here.”
Souls arriving but few departing.
He’d give them the key to the city
and his razor kisses.

Kisses that spoke of madness
on the confused mouths
of women lacking reason.
Always something thievish
in his eyes.

He was such a sweet talking void.
Yet, when you needed him,
he was never available for comment.
Still, if he moved backwards,
they would follow on their knees.

She passed through briefly
a few years back
and decided to return,
always enamored with the scenery.
Clytia, yearning for Apollo,
so sure the town she recalled
was heavenly.
Refusing to look
away from the sun.
Reciting some stupid
myth she had created.

When she arrived back
to where she was, she
found he had uprooted
and moved on.
flowers scattered everywhere.

Leaving behind hearts
and one stop streetlights
dangling from the wire.
His hat left on one of
his lover’s porches.
Now a fun house
of screams and horror.
Residue of tears, lingering,
stagnant in air of disillusionment

A lone dog wails in the

She stands godless.
Covered in numbness,
a few cherry blossoms
who’ve lost their cue
for timing, tragically,
drift by.

Lost and disillusioned.
Her detachment mask
slips to rage.
Her high heels do an
improvised voodoo dance
in dirt.
Trying to crush his name
before she becomes
part of the crumbling

-Tosha Michlle

My cover of Christina Perri”Jar Of Hearts” My talented father on electric guitar

“And who do you think you are?
Runnin’ ’round leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts
And tearing love apart
You’re gonna catch a cold
From the ice inside your soul
So don’t come back for me
Who do you think you are?”

The Importance of Being Wicked.

I know the importance
of manners and kindness.

Every now and
then though, I take
advice from the devil,
who likes to massage
my shoulder.

I break the cup of tea
and guzzle from a
wine bottle. I rip
apart my dress of
virtue and fornicate
with the wild flowers.

I dance naked through
a continent of imagination.
Stopping to wink coyly
at the opposite sex

Sometimes I swim
on a full stomach
and dress as a
category five hurricane

Finding passion in
every swirl. He tells
me, I’m such a pretty,
little savage.

He encourages me to
be reckless with my
destruction. Briefly,
the world stops for me.
I speak without language.

Then I awake in a bed
of obligation and social
graces, a world of selfless
and righteous living.

Posed. I rise and begin
my day. The devil hides
under the pale satin of
my dress. Later, we
scribble poems over
a path of moonshine,
skinny dipping in a
dark pond of paper.

Diving to the bottom
of uncharted debauchery.
Laughing at how “literally”
some people will take
this poem, and how
one will say he knew
it all along.

-Tosha Michelle

Some Men


Some men will kiss you
on the street and then
forget your name the
next time you meet.
Some men will study
you with the attention
of Michelangelo, taking
in every nuance
Beautifully engrossed.
You’ll revel in their
Some men should be
frisked for secret
weaponry, always
out to butcher your

Some men are crazy,
but say it’s you instead.
Some men will tie you,
naked to the bed,
satiating your relentless
longing, until you wink
like a fine piece of China
licked clean.
Some men aren’t familiar
with knots or your G spot

Some men are cold
December their last address
Some men refuse to keep a
padlock on their libido,
never content in a single shed
Some men are like cherry cola,
a bag of pepperoni combos,
Oreo cookies, and licorice.
You’ll want to gorge straight
out of the vending machine,
but they’ll leave you with a sick
stomach and rotting teeth.
Some men are soft and sweet.
These you usually call friend

Some men are lost things
They stay on your tongue
Long after the last sentence
has been spoken
These are the ones you write
poems about. Poetry that lives
off of the debris of what was
Your litany to starry nights,
shared history, bourbon shots,
and the nostalgic route that
always looks more scenic
looking back.

Some men you’ll never forget
These are the ones you
surrender to.
The men that leave you
so wind altered all you can
do is fall.
They stay rooted in your heart
for life. You’ll find yourself
swaying to their phantom
breeze, long after they are gone
These are the men who teach
you about yourself.
They fold your soul back,
forcing you to look inside,
inspiring you, to rearrange
and change. -Some
men you’ll love eternally.
These are those men.

-Tosha Michelle

Blown Away


Today you called me
to tell me the mistake
wasn’t what we had,
but what you tossed

The winds here are
strong. The storm
rages heavy with
grief and regret.
All the windows
in the house

My blood is cold.
My heart tied to
a madwoman’s
fears, while the
heart gains
strength from
the head to
to bolt the
door. My
scarred, I
hang up
the phone.

The love we had
buried under stone
All the cracks and
corners filled.

You introduced me
to the death of love
and now it is your
disaster to owe.

-Tosha Michelle

What Type of Man is He?


What type of man is he?

He’s of the tall and handsome variety
Bright, witty, well schooled in inky places.
He’ll seduce you with the sweet cadence
of his voice, making you think of velvet,
ivory towers, the first sip of hot chocolate,
and the fragrant smells of fall.

He’s the type of man who knows
how to wear his clothes. Fashionable.
fitted to his slender, masculine physique.
He is habit forming to the eyes
Sexy glaucoma. Sparking a fever
with this sentence, which ends
with an ache.

He’s the type of man who will appeal to
your darker places with his Machiavellian
maneuvers. Your upper and lower body
engaged in political debate. One part
rallying for a call to action
(la Marquise De Merteuil)
The other wholly disapproving. A rebellion
stirred in ungodly places. Places that
will beget and begat desire.
Remember even in the Bible
all that begetting and begatting
ended in tragedy.

He’s the type of man who can unbound
the tightest of books. beautifully,
unfairly. He’ll draw the words out
like the sweetest, stickiest of
taffy. The pages anxious to please,
willing to set fire to themselves if
he finds them lacking.

He’s the type of man who’s engaging, entrancing,
so very hard to resist. Touch if you dare.
He’s a stunning disaster. One you can’t
turn away from. The type of man
you will be fatally drawn to. If you touch him,
you both may suffer. Yes, I know. He’s so magnetic,
but he’s a danger zone. One you know, you
shouldn’t enter, one you must not enter,
but if you are anything like me, you just
might anyway.

-Tosha Michelle


These Foolish Things



Narcissistic and solipsistic
Perfected persona
Brilliant promotion
The Egotist HIM
Reflecting- illuminating
The Parasitic WE

Uppercase Conscience
lowercase nothingness

Exotic occultation
Discarded drapes
Faded facade
Man behind the curtain
Revealed and released

Introverted and reclusive
Urbane and well versed
Boyish and charming
Sly wit- understated grit
Ridiculously insane

Weirdly sublime
Quick to opine
Abstemious but salacious
Burlesque without the bourbon
Cranberry juice- No wine

Awkward and nerdy
Suave and dirty
A foreign culture
One of a kind
an original high

Overtly domineering
Covertly controlling
Maddening manipulator
Lunatic generator
Mischief maker

A shadow rider
Crossing lines

Chess master
Playing minds

A comedy of errors
A tragedy of wills

Mistaken missteps
Decimated land mine

A predisposed assumption
A steadfast exclusion

Forward drag

Seductive reincarnation
Poetic crossbow
Taking aim
Semantics rounds
No error in form
Story crest
Bowed illusion
Target hit

Unfulfilled ghost
Evaporated time
Miscarriage of intent
lies between you and I
Psychological filler
Masochistic reiteration
Empty leads
Bridge-less divide.

Demarcation erased
Dwindling mirage
Mind fog-lifted
Visual adjustment
Heart muted
Watch out
Back to reality I climb

of course…
next time…

-Tosha Michelle

Our Lost Spring.


Do you recall our lost spring?
The time of never ending evenings
Long walks through the park
Hands that never parted
Love found amidst dandelion promises
and sweet grass memories

Do you recall our lost spring?
The time of moonshine and fireflies.
Our melody so loud, it drowned out the crowd.
No pretense. Only divine truths.
We didn’t need anyone’s approval.
All we saw was the potential in each other

Do you recall our lost spring?
The time of sweet wine and soul drenching passion,
endless kisses that melted into the night dew,
glistening on a bed we never wanted to leave,
where all I could taste was forever on your skin.
and we pulsated in time, with our own celestial rhythm.

Do you recall our lost spring?
I do. Memories sweep in when the days become short,
and Jack Frost’s icy breath shivers down my neck.
My soul frostbitten. My heart cold.
I close my eves for a brief moment
I can smell your fresh untainted scent.
I’m transport back to our warm sultry lost spring,
where hope dances in on zephyrs
Love beams off clouds of cotton
Spring becomes nectar in my veins,
and withe a faint smile. I savor what could have been.

-Tosha Michelle

Self Help to Self Harm: The Dubious Guide to Life, Love, and Relationships.

I really hate self promotion. My friend Andy is a pro at it. I’m borrowing a page from him. Please check out my latest book

Self Help to Self Harm: The Dubious Guide to Life, Love, and Relationships.

Hey, I didn’t say the page I borrowed wasn’t obnoxious. The Bold and Annoying.

But I digress ( don’t I always?)

Self Help to Self Harm: The Dubious Guide to Life, Love, and Relationships. (can’t stop, won’t stop)

is a humorous, tongue-in-cheek look at life, love, and relationships, tempered by moments of serious introspection. This book won’t get you laid, help you lose ten pounds, cure your addictions, or draw you closer to God or Starbucks (whatever you worship).

Way to sell it, right? Hopefully, it will make you chuckle and cause you to rethink your One Direction hate.

You can purchase the book here:

If you like it,  I’d really appreciate if you would consider leaving a review on Amazon, GoodReads, and Barnes&Noble. If you don’t like it..well…keep that sh** to yourself. Kidding.