The day they lower me into the dirt,
I want to be remembered by my work.
One day when I am six feet under,
I want my treasures torn asunder.
I won’t need riches, wealth, or money.
After all, it’s kinda funny.
They won’t follow me to hell.
I want to be remembered well.
May my art lead others to glee.
May my work make others free.
After all, what’s the point, if it all ends with me?
Art and creation are for confronting mortality.

Profundity is found
in the simple, everyday
occurrences that our
human brains apply
immense meaning to.

We do not sleep. Our all-seeing eyes do not close to rest.
Our ethereal bodies don’t have such mundane needs.

But we do dream.
Vivid imaginations are one of our token traits.
Through our dreams, we create schematics and prototypes.
We test theories and explore ideas in our superconscious minds.

After all, human…
What is mankind if not
a dream that the gods
decided to write down
in dirt and blood?

Twenty-five cents.
To most, this insignificant amount of money is spent with little worry or care.
Twenty-five cents.
To me, it’s all I have. I worry I’ll die with a quarter to my name.
I care about the number I see on my phone screen as I check my bank account.
Twenty-five cents.
A trivial coin given to a child to buy a trivial toy.
Twenty-five ******* cents.
A pang in my gut as I see the history of every purchase,
every dollar spent, every card swiped.
Twenty-five cents.
It’s all that remains.

We are bugs under his shoes.
Not a loved child, in terrible two’s.
Disobedient children couldn’t be so far.
We are grains of sand, and he is a star.
Trample our cities under his feet.
We believe he loves us, an epic conceit.
So full of ourselves, we hope he will serve us.
We pray for glory, success, and surplus.

My body is a patchwork of all the times I’ve sewn myself back together.
You came along with a seam ripper, needles, and an old sewing machine.
I thought you would use them to gently return me to my original design.
I thought you would make me whole again, as a sort of seamstress savior.
But you didn’t have those supplies prepared to mend me or even yourself.
Even when I found out the truth, I trusted you to fix my tattered fabric.
You cinched and pinned me into a shape I didn’t recognize anymore.
You ripped out my stitches, and started sewing a new jacket for your size.
When I told you it hurt, you didn’t seem to care. You ignored my pleas.
When I’d finally had enough, I ran from your cruel redesign of my identity.
My new shape wasn’t designed to run, an intentional choice on your part.
You came and found me stumbling in the cold, and took me back home.
I escaped your carefully made sewing room again and again, only to return.
I took me months to cut the long trail of threads leading you straight to me.
With the last thread snipped, I escaped for the final time. I was finally free.
But I was not the same quilt as when I met you. I was a quilted jacket now.
I was only meant to keep someone warm. Only meant to keep you warm.
Now that I was on my own, I thought I needed to find another wearer.
I tried finding someone else to use the coat that you had turned me into.
But none of them fit right because you tailored me to your measurements.
Making a new me to suit you was never even more than a hobby to you.
The task of remaking my entire identity back into a quilt falls on me now.
I dated you to fix my mismatched patches only to learn I must fix myself.
All that pain. All that trauma and abuse. And I still don’t know how to sew.

Spots of ink adorn my hands.
I hope my writing crosses the lands.
With joy and tears following its path,
I hope it inspires someone’s inner wrath.
Today, I’ll write like lightning struck me.
Tomorrow, they’ll read what I wrote and see
The truth lies on ink-filled pages,
Written by these unknown sages.
Together, the ink, it will congeal,
Making truth and making life real.

I love her, but her mind grows weak.
The doctors say she may have a month, maybe a week.
Together, we tell stories. Me, more than her.
The ones that we laugh at and half remember.
I don’t know what I’ll do the day that she dies.
“Together forever” really meant the rest of our lives.
I hope I’ll see her in the great everafter.
But until then, I sit with her and treasure her laughter.

Your questions have
been selected carefully.

Like bullets in a gun,
they are loaded.

“How are you?”
Shoot me once.

“How’s your job?”
Shoot me twice.

“How is school?”
One by one.

The bullets land.
Wear me down.

Break my heart
and my skin.

I watched her become numb.
I watched as nothing reached
past the fog surrounding her mind.

The constant disconnect between her and everything around her scared me.
When she stopped smiling with her eyes, it scared me.
When she became unrecognizable, it scared me.

Her death was a surprise to no one.
But it was a relief to some.
She had been a bright light in so many lives.
Her radiance and color were unlike anyone else.
Watching it dull into gray fog made us feel
like the whole world was losing color.

The funeral was as solemn as her last few months had been.
Not everyone had seen her descent into dullness.
Her dementia-muddled mind was uninterested
in the friends and family who did come to see her.

She lived as a dear friend to me and many others,
but she died a stranger to all. May she rest in color,
and may the people she left behind always remember
her vibrant life.

Bite my lip, make it bleed.
Not a lover, it’s just me.
Tearing my skin
Bleeding begins.
The blood cries like I do.
On lonely nights,
Blood on my lips.
I start to slip
Into a haze
That lasts for days

Oh, to be the Fool. Awakening with naivety and positivity.
Oh, to see the Magician. Creating the world he wants to see.
Oh, to meet the High Priestess. Mastering her inner intuition.
Oh, to serve the Empress. Mothering all, including ourselves.
Oh, to serve the Emporer. Leading with our head and heart.
Oh, to study the Hierophant. Learning to change paradigms.
Oh, to kiss the Lovers. Choosing unity and new connections.
Oh, to ride the Chariot. Racing towards success and victory.
Oh, to have Strength. Letting compassion lead our way.
Oh, to rest with the Hermit. Reflecting in peaceful solitude.
Oh, to turn with the Wheel. Cycling up through lessons.
Oh, to face Justice. Balancing truth, wisdom, and karma.
Oh, to speak with the Hanged Man. Surrendering to fate.
Oh, to know Death and Rebirth. Transitioning into change.
Oh, to walk in Temperance. Balancing and blending energy.
Oh, to meet the Devil. Facing our inner demons and shadows.
Oh, to topple the Tower. Felling and rebuilding a sense of self.
Oh, to wish upon the Star. Asking and hoping for our healing.
Oh, to see the Moon. Sinking into murky shadows and dreams.
Oh, to feel the Sun. Radiating exuberance to those around us.
Oh, to face Judgement. Knowing our motives and inner truth.
Oh, to reach the World. Changed into better versions of ourselves.

Comforted by the bitter.
When your heart twitters,
You pull back and shiver.
Realize that you are a liver.
Not an ***** meant to filter,
But a human just off-kilter.
Realign your soul to peace.
Adjust your path, jump in the leaves.

She hangs above, not upside down.
Waiting for her turn, never wearing a frown.
She is a patient woman, wearing a man’s face.
She cannot run, she walks at her own pace.
Who is she? This dark, hidden lady?
She is so bright, when she isn’t shady.
The Moon, oh, the Moon!
Who’s lover comes soon.
Her lover, the sun, sits so high in the sky.
On opposite sides from her sweetheart at night.
But every once in a while, they meet up to kiss,
Covering the world in a gloomy, dark eclipse.

Sometimes we wanna make something.
But we really just want to cry.
Maybe creating tears is still creating.

Creating love,
Creating light,
Creating dark,
Creating night.

Maybe what matters more is the fact that
there’s a product rather than what we produce.

Uphill battles may be ahead,
but they are also behind us.
Do not follow Sisyphus’s footsteps.
Reach your goals and be complete.

What makes a tragedy?
A hero in the wrong story
A child in the wrong household
A man in the wrong marriage
A woman in the wrong family

One man’s outbreak
Another man’s breakthrough
It struck us all
In different ways
It struck us all

We lost many
Despite our best efforts
Still mourning
We are all
Still mourning

We tried to connect
Through screens and masks
Locked inside
While we were
Locked inside

You have me on a string.
Like a leaf caught in a stream
You drag me along
You are my song
An aria I sing
You have me on a string.

You sometimes think you want to disappear,
but all you really want is to be found.
I wasn’t wanting a specific answer.
What I wanted was to know.
Let me find you.

There’s a reason why I keep it all inside.
Loving you was the most delicious form
Of self-destruction I have ever tasted.
I don’t want to write about you anymore.

Regal, he sits on a planet all his own.
Supreme authority is held within his scepter.
Calmly, he guides his people to safety and comfort.
Compassion drives his leadership,
And his kindness helps him take care of those he protects.
He shields his flock under his eagle’s wings.
Rain and wind cannot reach them when they trust in him.

After darkness fell, stars shone on the outside.
On Chestnut Street, he came to her bedside.
He sat by her deathbed, feeding her soup.
Her pale thin lips barely covered the spoon.
He told her stories he’s told her before.
She tries to breathe with ribs frail and sore.
After many hours, she falls gently asleep.
He hears her last breath and prays God, her soul, will keep.

We shared kisses like tools at a workshop.
Pecks were thrown around like nuts and bolts.
A small smooch was passed back and forth
like a screwdriver whenever it was needed.
A large kiss was given like a rotary saw.
It was handed over with caution and care.
The sloppy, makeout kisses sat as unused
As an oddly sized wooden board, one that sat
Along the wall with no purpose or project.
Excuses to not hold hands littered our home
like small screws and nails litter a garage.
Love sat in the back corner of our lives,
And work took its place as our purpose.
Our love dwindled. As did the number
of tools and supplies we used to maintain it.

Despite the night’s serenity,
calm is far from what I feel.
There is only a slight breeze
as the storm inside rages on.

A year has passed since it
happened. Beginning and
ending all in one fell swoop.
Even now I don’t know the…  

Truth is a feeling, an under-
standing that seeps into your
being, that brings peace.
Or so I thought.

This truth only brings a storm,
a hurricane whipping around
my mind as I want to scream.
Truth does not always bring
peace. Sometimes it brings pain.

The clean pages of paper I write on,
Differ greatly from the Google Doc I type on.
These titanium white sheets will be covered with time,
But an endless stream of opportunities is presented by
The typing exercise, using my computer to cope.
The words that I write encourage my hope.
Poems and prose that echo love and truth.
All the things I learned from my youth.

New beginnings are in order.
It’s time to start again.
Begin a new chapter.
Make a new friend.
Don’t close the book.
Don’t call it an end.
You are only getting older.
You will not break if you bend.

Food and sleep to stay alive.
Medications to stay stable.
Friends to stay happy.
Love to start living.

What is living? Is it the opposite of dead?
No, that’s survival. Is it eating, and sleeping?
No, that’s being alive. Living is different.
Living is choosing to do those other things for an ultimate concern.
Living is doing more than those things
to experience your life to the fullest capacity possible.