Nothing more,
nothing less
than the seed growing
in the ceramic ***
than the serendipity of
stumbling upon people made of
sunrays and stardust,
than the potential for growing,
than the potential of decay.
I'm nothing more
nor nothing less
than potential for love and hate,
for creation and destruction.
Insignificant and small.
Important and huge.
I am everything
and nothing of major importance.
I am somehow miraculously
in the most mundane sense
me.
Happy birthday indeed.
Mar 30, 2021
Mar 30, 2021 at 5:52 PM UTC
You're twenty years early
and ten years late.
It is too early to worry about it
and it's too late to regret it.
It's too early to act on it
and too late to do anything about its past.
It's too early to rush into it
and too late to start on time.
It's both too early and too late.
And that's precisely why
we have time.
Nov 2, 2020
Nov 2, 2020 at 6:56 AM UTC
I wish there was a substance
to the stories I tell.
But there's not much to be contained
within the walls of my cardigan,
ceramic rings
circling the joints and bones
of a hand too fragile
to hold solid concepts.
There is but an empty balloon
nestled in a stomach
craving appetites and fullness.
Words hollowed out
to hold scribbled strings
of disjointed thoughts
pulling and shape and meaning.
A ghost that's stuck
between wet cold rocks.
Oct 9, 2020
Oct 9, 2020 at 1:42 PM UTC
Should the lights be dimmed,
should the night be dark.
should I ever break
or claim to fall apart,
should my blood run cold,
should my tears run dry,
should I stop believing
that light in dark resides,
turn my face away
from the blackness of the sky,
twist my wide eyes back
from the lands on which I walk,
rip me whole from all of this
I have claimed to have disowned,
and then I'll burst to dust,
and then in light I shall explode,
and then I'll burn alive again,
then I'll be once more a whole.
May 22, 2020
May 22, 2020 at 8:53 PM UTC
T all grapevines entwine with the
O verhead wires and lead to
U nwilling leaves now home to a
G iant green guest with the
H olographic horrifying eyes.
T roubled dreams the bug is dreaming.
I mpossible luck keeps it away from
N earby spider webs and
Y ellow giant villains.
T angled in untangled thoughts of
H orrid dreams of hope
I t sits on its green leaf and is
N ow watching flowers bloom.
G ratefullness swells its tiny heart.
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 4:34 PM UTC
As his limbs stroked along the bottom
with all the power he held, in slow motion,
there was a case to be made
for the existence of the magical and the occult.
Kaleidoscope webs covered his back
in what looked like infinite rainbow nets
each brushing against a bone or muscle
unseen in the plain light before.
His hair was softened by the absence of air,
each strand fainting at a different angle
begging to be touched
right before being pulled in one direction
of precise yet strenuous motion.
All neglected now was illuminated.
Rarely things burn their way into memory
the way a face can be filtered through transparency,
distorted by liquid out of proportion
yet still so charmingly calm and surreal
all you can do is look away
and then stare again.
And what bottomless greed it is indeed
to wish to posses a moment like this for eternity.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 3:16 PM UTC