“Head back eyes closed”
Is what my mother taught me as a child in the bath
So the mix of water and shampoo wouldn’t sting my eyes.
Now much older,
Not even remembering the last bath I was in,
I’m under your waterfall.
There’s no point in pushing back against the sharp, white daggers
Of velocity crazed water droplets.
I drop my head back
And close my eyes,
Hoping that the weight of the water won’t break my back.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
I'm scared of myself.
Sometimes.
Thoughts will softly bubble up to the ceiling of my conscience,
brushing past rational thinking
and emotional knowledge,
and burst.
The sound startles me.
How could I've let that happen?
How did the bubble even form?
I'm not one to carelessly release the airtight seal
that keeps out unwanted visitors.
I fear more bubbles, but assure myself it's just a fluke.
This doesn't happen to people like me.
Surely.
Sometimes.
But more scared that I'm the only one.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 9:53 PM UTC
I am not made of lethargy or inability.
Just a severe case of perfectionist.
I wanted it to be great.
So,
I just did nothing at all.
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 10:07 PM UTC
Be sure to grab an umbrella before you enter.
You may need a raincoat, too.
It's pouring
sideways rain and whipping wind.
The clouds stay bright, though.
The sun still ricocheting off of the sidewalks.
It's blinding
and confusing,
I know.
You will see me running,
screaming,
skin and bones.
I'm okay.
Don't worry, I haven't lost it
Yet.
Just let me dance
as I do.
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
i let all things pass
i am impervious to conflict
it rolls off my back and into a bucket of
disregarded worries
it's effective
for now
i feel one day this old wooden bucket
shaking under the weight
will give in
my worries will break the great dam
what has been keeping me together
that water will tear through my seams
that water will run down my fingers
that water will flow in my hair
that water will not be in my eyes
for this bucket: the worry bucket
has taught me
that everything can pass
there is no need to yell at the clouds
for raining on your freshly washed car
i've learned
head back, eyes closed
(that's what my mother told me
when she was bathing me as a kid)
so that rain will never reach my eyes
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
think of me often
my hands, bones, body: shaking
I am not dust yet
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
the beginning was calm
you were alone
departed some time ago
you shook the puzzle a bit
and the pieces felt out of place
but you didn't complain about
picking them up
you said you were wired differently
that you can't fall out of love
even when the war came
and we sat outside chinatown
you told me you didn't care about
the water of the womb
you wanted to pack up
and go
somewhere
where the pansies danced
and the girls are tough
where this big ol' house
at the end of the road
is your home
you say you knew
your life was planned since day one
but for some reason
you are not there
but still
with me, sitting
outside chinatown
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
and they fell like snow, softly and close together.
each unique but each same. they came together from the forces above, whether that be heaven or the clouds. they came together by chance or by destiny, whichever you believe.
and they fell like snow, softly and close together.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
pale porch light
illuminates the small
old wicker chair
on the verge of breaking
it already leaves paint chips everywhere
but you can't bring yourself to throw it out
you sit with a smoke in your mouth
and your glass jar
and the moon shines
strong enough to light up the whole town
and you don't mind
because this is what you are used to
the old wicker chair
the bright cigarette
that your girlfriend gets mad at you for
but still kisses you with a cough
the foggy mason jar
that is filled with practically indigestible alcohol
but that's your life
it's simple on the outside
a sweet contrast
it stops your ever spinning head
for just 5 seconds
and you look down
your unlucky skin in the pale porch light
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
he watches as his life set ablaze
with morphine and fireworks
29 candles and a red tent
that was an accident
he spoke with bated breath but now
with vigor and bravery
freedom and fear
and it's not your fault
he walked as his legs protested
with medicine and cigarettes
a camcorder and a cane
they maybe one of the lucky ones
he swam with a set intention
saltwater burning
putting up a fight
he's never felt so alive
for once he'll finish something
it was a happy one
and there's no tragedy in that
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC