i looked at the mirror, but i still could not see
what many have pointed out time and again…
i looked once more but not a change;
‘twas just me, a self looking struck as it happened he could not see--

i looked at the mirror, but i still could not see
why men and women have said good things…
i looked once more but not a change;
‘twas just me with ruffled hair and eyes still too blind to see--

i looked at the mirror, but still could not see
why many have envied my name…
I looked once more but not a change;
‘twas just me with--OH wAIT! i see it now… and it's as cLEAR as it can bE!

When I ask myself whether or not
the puzzle pieces of your mind fit mine,
I don't find myself haphazardly tying a knot
to try and hold some faltering sinews in line:
a shove of very different selves pit taut
by a fraying rope of rosy tongue-tied lies
I might've devised upon many a thought
in trying to assuage some "mild" despise...

I don't feel the need to lie about you
when I consider the likelihood
of the likeness of our lenses...

Our tastes meld together in a complementary recipe
of a quality fondness topped in cherry
(and I quite like their utter lack
of back-and-forth oaken pretenses).

the ill-tempered autumn wind does little to sway an evergreen

whose timber column rings thus of doggedness unseen.

there may have been moments when leaves would wither here and there,

but its blanket of foliage has fought to keep its verdant hue--

whether caught in snow or shaken by pelting rain,

whether trampled undue by the trudging of time

or battered somehow by a certain bane...

the fact is, he's been here for so long:

he's taken after the colors of her writing pens

like mixed laundry bleeding its red unto a wash of white linens--

alas, sometimes I find myself lying beneath the boardwalk

drowning in her songs and sifting through a gallery of her smiles.

this has been the most meaningful three quarters of any year

i have had the privilege of co-authoring with someone so dear.

A weeping soul asleep in bed— a teenage boy in dreary lament,
Seeks solace in riches dreamt. To live overseas in superfluous luxury,
Is all the boy knows he must have as a have-not. His heart, bought by
Awry thoughts and prospects, yearns for golden years and silver days.

Yet he knows not the life of the rich man; a life of misery and pain,
The king, who sits on his throne, a lonely soul known by all men—
An irony of knowing all men but lonely nonetheless. A glut of gold
buys but bliss and love, for we miss and love what we have not.

Hence all men are hypocrites; wishing riches in their days of youth
And wishing youth in their golden years. The young ask the old why
They are not happy, and vise versa. Neither understand their reasons,
And men will always long for selves whom they are not. Satisfaction—
Or rather disillusionment; always there, yet never met.

A Liebestraum and two Arabesques
stood there holding me
between the ears
one mundane evening…

The indoor storm who knew could deject
one so boldly
cleaned its final tears
and left me be…

A new wave calm eschewed ‘til present
flooded in me
serene and aptly dear
calmness…

For a moment I felt a sense of clarity that had neglected me for ages.
My sullen blues and anxious reds faded to black,
and all manner of emotion had been evicted from my mind.
I could think about things in straight lines and deep focus
for an entire ******* moment.

Then Spotify had to ruin the moment
with an indie rock montage in my queue.
I cried.

I wonder whether we'd see ourselves
on a dainty handheld hologram
stuck between bookends
with titles of worn-out type
one sentimental winter afternoon
many moons from now...

Perhaps then we'd have outgrown counting months:
we might as well count the years
like they do the stars on a tranquil night,
naming the myths and figures
they've burned into our insight;
we'll dream of constellations—
islands of starlight that stood out
in an already pleasant sea
of living life with you.