Funny how easy
Loves appears to be, until
It laughs with the other easily
Reconcilable "maybes"
That devalue your first "hello".

First, it began as "hello".
Little did you know how
Interested he would be in you, but
Reflecting on it now, you see how those
Tender tendencies weren't exclusive.

Finally, all you have left is "hello",
Like every other girl he knows.
Inevitably, you're one of many
Recycled pretties that thought
They were more than another "maybe".

Take a second to jot down a few words directly into the post box.
Be thankful for the moment you got away today and drove with the windows down to pick up pizza for dinner.
You didn't want to step away from your computer,
but your parents told you to, so you ran the errand.
Driving...
yeah...
hm...
What a nice relief.
Remember the music that played and how the wind brushing your arm reminded you of that liberating feeling when you would ride motorcycles in Estero, and it felt like nothing mattered...
You just drove and hummed whatever song made you feel the happiest.
yeah...

Okay.

Your procrastination is over, so seclude yourself out on the lanai;
brace for the long night ahead.
Maybe your friends will wish you a good night and it'll motivate you for the long haul.
It hasn't been too long since you last stayed up until 2... 3... maybe 4am, right?
Put on that playlist. (It will help.)
Let Son Lux provide that numbing white noise,
loud enough to keep you energized, quiet enough to let you type.
Maybe you'll stay out until you get it done.
Maybe you'll just get it over with tonight.
Maybe you'll want to stay out, to see the sunrise.
Maybe,
but for now, finish up your word doodles,
your little mindless rants,
so you can apply your mind to the "important things".
You'll make the best of it. (I know you will.)
Maybe you'll have fun with it.
Maybe you'll be proud of it.
Maybe you'll forget everything you've learned,
Maybe,
but for now, this is your time to write,
your time to prove yourself,
so you can tell the rest of the world,

"I did it."

...My hardened heart has been awakened.
The broken grounds will begin to quake and
within the crevices between the faults,
Your rushing water will flood....

Sleep ‘till you wake up
No need to make up
For anyone
Or anything

Rest and relax now
No need to stress now
Just clear your head
And go to bed

Dreams will be here soon
Focus on now, soon
You’ll see the way
It’s another day

Closing your eyes, hush
Sounds minimized, hush
It’s all you need
Just go to sleep

Just go to sleep.

Oh, that?
That little trinket- I nearly forgot- really.
Little trinkets, tinkering tangible objects,
can be quite fun, believe me.
I’ve had my fair share of fond memories.

You know the saying, “Reduce, reuse, recycle.”
Sometimes I do that with my words.
Reduce, let loose, reuse, abuse, recycle-
the cool thing with words is that they are multifaceted,

But, gosh dangit, sometimes there aren’t rhyming words with “recycle”.... So you do just that: recycle- again (and again, and sometimes again, but, this time, paraphrased)

Anyways. Unfortunately, my tired brain forgets,
So unless I jot it down well,
those goals with their multi-facets,
I underestimate them until they reveal themselves.

By this time, it may be too late,
but I forget how I’m young.
However, If I were to be blatantly
honest, hearing this, at first, stung.

Growing up, you hear about lists
and how people want to accomplish
certain things- you get the jist.
The standard I set for myself flourished

In the environment I was given,
but only after I was old enough to drive,
know how finances operated for livin’,
so that I may be successful. To thrive.

I’m sorry to bore you with my words:
my tales of unforeseen potential.
Growing up is fun, but I’ve learned
how the use of those trinkets are circumstantial:

You gotta know when to take advantage of them.

It hurts more to succumb to the darkness
Than to resist its emotional drag,
To give into the negativity
And accept the longevity
Of that damp, moldy, abrasive rag,
Than to accept and see the Likeness.

Accept the overwhelming Embrace,
Rather than the darkness of that place.
Overcome. Claim what’s overdue:
The Love, the Peace, and the Grace.

Days like today call for second dinners
Because days like today missed the one in the morning

Seconds dinners substitute one for the other
You get sleep, but miss the one
You miss sleep, but get the other
Though you hardly ever get the one,
You can still hope to get the other,
Because one bowl filled with satin glazed rings is just as promising as those midnight stars outside your window.
They both help you sleep
and the thunder begins to settle.

waiting
              for
                   the day
                               that you
                                              will
                                                     write me
                                                                      a few
                                                                                kind
                                                                                         words
                                                                                                    ........................

Innocent girl
You have no hate in your heart
You only see the best
In people

Innocent girl
Precious in all that you are
You deserve the wholesome things
So little

You have to understand
How the world is imperfect
And no boy or any man
Should make you feel less worth it

Pretty little girl
Let no one challenge your art
It’s unique in every purpose,
It’s fragile

Pretty little girl
Talented, careful, and smart
Keep that steadfast, selfless love,
It’s valuable

“Why does she write poetry?”
“She must be in love...”
“I wonder who she’s writing about.”

My words are more
than mindless infatuation,
though they lend themselves
to this tendency.
For instance, I wrote this
in less that 5 minutes,
because “love” isn’t the only
motivation to my poetry.
Don’t underestimate
the intention of my inspiration.

I often see poems that go by "untitled".
Some may even refer their poems as "Untitled" with capitalized importance.
"Untitled" is not to be, nor should it be, mistaken for "unimportant".
The work is still in process.
It has importance.

I often write poems that go by titles.
Some may even say that my poems are "Unoriginal" with cliche names.
"Unoriginal" is not to be, nor should it be, mistaken for "unintentional".
The work went through the process.
It has intention.

I often read poems because of their titles.
Some may even claim that their poems are "Profound" with unlimited potential.
"Profound" is not to be, now should it be, mistaken for "invaluable".
The work is still processing.
Its value has yet to be seen.

a lot can happen in a year, maybe four;
a lot can happen in an hour, maybe more.

talking is fine, but can you take on the risk?
now, i’m not just talking about an ordinary task.
whether it be a lifetime of love, the love of your life,
or one particularly special night,
it all comes down to this:
a right
of passage, a race.

who’s better?

he’s taller, but he has the nice hair;
she’s blonder, while she tries not to care.
he can’t dance, and he won’t try;
she won’t admit to the tear in her eye.
he knows what he wants, and he knows nothing;
she tries to distinguish a little bit of everything.

stop it.

there’s no winning the race yet because his shoe is untied;
she can’t stand and go face that finish line.
he tripped and fell, but so did she;
the other guy ran, only to fall to his knees.
stop panting and collect yourself- just breathe.

a lifetime led to four years, and four years to that day;
she ran and chased too many check points along the way.
afraid of being alone, she asked too many times;
afraid of dancing alone, she asked, but was still denied.
him, him, him, him, he who was possibly that sacred hymn:
one he wondered impatiently,
another he pursued contradictingly,
another he fell flawlessly;
however, no he was to be lawfully,
but only so rightfully.

this is no lifetime, but only
one evening not meant to be lonely.
the only way to win is to face them directly in the eye
and have every question answered. why?
because this is that special night,
senior year, and you have the right.

step back, step up, have courage, calm down.
ASK her to a quaint place in town,
but before she even knows you’re listening,
just as both your hearts are quickening,
surprise HER with that special something.
if she knows, you may think you blew it,
when really, this whole time, she probably knew it.
it won’t be easy, but if it comes from the heart,
there’s the finish line. all you’ve got TO do is start…

ya know, sometimes Poems Reveal Oblivious Messages...

Hands unraveled
Brutal freezing
Frigid heartache
Hardly easing
Know that I am
Just a helpless
Star-crossed lover

Hold me closer
Never ceasing
Take my hand
Forever reaching
Know that I am
Just a helpless
Star-crossed lover

On your shoulder
Feel me breathing
Touch my heart
Forever pleading
Know that I am
Just a helpless
Star-crossed lover

Let’s be bolder
Take me dancing
Feel the rhythm
My heart racing
Know that I am
Just a helpless
Star-crossed lover

For my last word
Hear me speaking
Love is here
But I’m still seeking
Because I am
Just a helpless
Star-crossed lover



See me tremble
Ice cold breaking
Heat misguided
Feel me shaking
Know that I am
Just a helpless
Star-crossed lover

Star light, star bright,
Twinkling with a neon sight,
How I love thy brilliant light,
And marvel in your twinkling might.

Shooting star, longing sigh,
Flying through a misty sky,
How I love thy wondrous why,
And stay along ‘till you draw nigh.

I wish I may, I wish I might,
I wish to understand your plight.
How I love thy marvelous height,
And hope you’ll stay throughout the night.

Flying fast, flying high,
Right before my very eye.
How I love thy heart’s imply,
But hate to have to say goodbye.

Tell me 'bout your family
Tell me how you've been

Have you found your saving grace
With every act of sin

I hope you know, with every word
I am captivated

With every poem I've ever heard,
I have cultivated

A passing transaction
Of humble attraction
For you, my friend.


Tell me 'bout your heartache
Tell me how you feel

Have you ever seen a thing
So precious and surreal

I hope you know that you are loved
With no hesitation

With every song, I come undone
Accept my invitation

For conversation
With consideration
For you, my friend.


Tell me you won't leave me
Tell me we're not done

Please leave no words left unsaid
Or any song unsung

I hope you know this is the time
It's ours for the taking

With every hour, before you leave,
Just know that I'm making

A heartfelt pleading
Of hidden feeling
For you, my friend

I wanted words; you gave me conversation

I wanted smiles; you gave me laughter

I wanted music; you gave me symphonies

I wanted dinner; you gave me daydreams

I wanted flowers; you gave me gardens

I wanted your hand; you gave me your heart

I wanted friendship; you gave me love

I wanted the stars; you gave me the night

I wanted everything; you gave me you

were we dumb or were we clever
when we said we'd be together
did we really think that we
would end up where
we are
going to have a great adventure
it's just you and me together
so let's go have fun forever,
go exploring and endeavor
things like love.

And these are the things we don't always see:
The hour spent walking, the trouble spent curling, the struggle one has in knowing.

And these are the things we don't want to see:
The blisters from hurrying, the burns from perfecting, and the tears one has in breaking.

Like swimming upstream,
Going against the grain,
Walking through a festival's crowd,
I cut into the package,
But I couldn't get through.
It was stuck.
Pressure
Would not
Suffice,

So it

Snapped.

www.

I searched for your name
I searched for the famous
words of your own oppression
to learn a valuable lesson
of why you are yourself

I searched for your name
I searched for explanations
and recommendations of whom
you admire to know, whom you
aspire to be for yourself and others

I searched for your name
I searched. For what pertains
to a complicated mind
if I can't understand my own rhymes
for myself?

No. I searched for your breath
I searched for the air in your lungs,
the restless fuel waiting upon your tongue
so that I my breathe and feel
the reality that truly is surreal
in the brilliantly mind within you.

An open mic, an invitation, a couple minutes of self expression: simple.
Each artist is to each other as two books are, unread, undiscovered, and uninterpreted: unique.
Not every man can claim his prize. There is no one wise
enough to say which is better than the other,
But rather
A few truths to offset the lies
Behind a person's conscience. They try.

Let me tell you a story about an object, a rumbling, roaring object.
Sometimes, it screams.
Sometimes, it flutters.
Sometimes...
it doesn't know what it wants to do,
But it follows me everywhere. If there's one thing it is sure about,
it's that it doesn't like to be ignored,
But it is.
It makes these noises like a rhythmic chant,
repetitively calling out to me, yet here's the catch...
I don't know how to answer.
Everyone has this.
Everyone knows this,
But everyone inevitably ignores this
because they
Hear the screams,
Feel the fluttering,
But they don't know what to do.
However,
It's when this thing aligns with somebody else's
that all is made right.
We dance to a beat, our personal drum line. Sometimes,
we dance to the beat of somebody else's drum, but this is not wise.
It's when we dance to the beat of our own drum,
this screaming, pathetic thing,
that we find our true place,
and it's when our drum happens to rhythmically align with another's drum
that we begin to know why everything didn't make sense before now.
And so, we dance.

Allergies... Allergies.
Gosh, **** it, allergies.
The sniveling sniffles
Ravaging in my nostrils

Itching... that itch,
It makes my nose twitch.
The sting through the tunnels
Of my overall troubles.

Eh.... AHH...
I promise I'm not sad,
My eyes are just showing
The twinge of my sneezing.

It’s crisp, it’s sweet.
It’s soft, it’s bitter.
It’s all these things
Because it’s winter.

It bites, it burrs.
It quickens, it slows,
It acts like a cat,
A creature that knows.

A hug, a kiss,
“Hello”, “Goodbye.”
You want to hold on,
But also to cry.

A time, a tick,
A whisper, a reason,
Yes, it was fun,

For only a season.

Don't you think today is a beautiful day?
It rained, but that's okay.
The weather doesn't define a day, nor a book its cover- Wait, scratch that, reverse it... Oh! But my words don't matter!

Whatever other cliché you can think of, it still pales in comparison to the glimmering, glittering, glistening giddiness I heard in your words, like a small child after indulging in his second juice box.

I felt it in your smile, though I couldn't see it. So strong, it broke through the foggy break in an unforgiving sky. It was the kind of feeling so strong to radiate through my flesh like building, blistering, bubbles about to pop in a *** of boiling water.

Oh, but the sun was so bright today!
Its ultraviolet burn into my skin... an exhilarating feeling, like tears at the end of a good movie, without an inkling of sadness within a thousand mile radius, like puddles after a cleansing drizzle.

My, what good weather we're having, wouldn't you say?
It rained, but that's okay.

I love how rain causes
My toes to tingle in
Shivering excitement as my
Flip flops flip, squish, and
Mush their way through the lot.

I love how rain turns
My windshield wipers into
Little syncopated skids that
Squeak like a dog’s new toy.

I love how rain leaves
A resonating glisten on the
Fragile, damp grass,
Causing me to slip as I
Go on to class.

A desk. A desk behind me and to my left.
How delicate is the flower upon that desk,
Bright, filled with color, but not for long.

She has been plucked, picked.
This means she was chosen,
She is special,
But how long before she fades?
I hope she and the flower beside her
Hold on to that color,
But they’d have to be fake to do so.

A flower, two flowers, lie delicately
On an empty desk.
One is full, whose petals radiate with
A pink glow, while the other, a little more sparse.
The former has an ant crawling on it, while
The latter twinkle, delicately shivering in the
Air conditioning.

Two flowers,
Two entirely different stories,
Stuck at the same desk.

Dear, little, itty, bitty pencil…
You are rough, ragged, and pitted,
Left with no words to say, but
Those that are as dull as your
Flattened, grey tip.

I commend you for your service,
Being used by all, yet left with
No way to erase your mistakes.

Why are you itty bitty?
Have you just been used so much
That you lack the endurance
Of a sword freshly sharpened?

Instead, you’re overdone in the
Firey kiln of vocabulary.

It shook me.
Like the buzzing of an early morning alarm, I was awoken from my sleep.
Into reality, I was thrown, and into the mini-van, I was packed away.
I didn’t want to leave, but I left with my family
And, by the grace of God, a fourteen hour drive landed us safely in Georgia.
Georgia… Ah, Georgia.
It had been a while since my last visit, though every previous time was voluntary.
In Georgia, they cancel school over a little rain,
While the eye of the storm hovers its dreadful head over my home,
As if to see what it could devour.
But it didn’t.
It didn’t succeed.
It didn’t quench its thirst.
It couldn’t devour.
It barely left a mark on my home, but the mark on the community was much larger.
This was a wake-up call to that community to commune, to partake in its purpose.
It was a call to me to partake in mine.
My calling, like a dream from a deep sleep,
Was awoken… and
It shook me.

Well, hello! We meet again.
I’ve brought you here today to inquire about your likeness.
No, I’m not going anywhere, yet.
But I do want to inform you on how important you are.
Compliments are just a formality, but you’re pretty,
Despite the chains that hold you back,
There are keys to happiness and you’re one of them.
I wonder, though, how even with your colorfully streamed
Shimmer, how you still manage to get lost…

But no judgment here!

Without you, I’d be stuck more often than I already do.
Please consider how much I appreciate your companionship
On those many exhausting rides, and casual strolls.
Now, if you’d excuse me, we gotta go, or we’ll be late.
Please don’t get lost again.

5 pennies in a nickel…
10 pennies in a dime…
25 pennies in a quarter…
100 pennies in a dollar…
Each penny plays a particular part in
the grand scheme of economic "advancement"

Money is exchanged.
It comes…
It goes…
Some people see its worth,
while others don’t.

It makes people happy,
But then again,
It only brings sadness at the same time.

It's counterproductive.

Over the counter, at the minimum wage shopping center,
Minimal glances are changed,
For minimal durations…
Each penny is a part of a whole…
There’s a price to be paid…
It moves into the hands of another.