roses are red
violets are blue
computers are great
but I miss you

as the sun burns
bright and radiant,
it shines on a world
that keeps turning
under blue skies
that match the
ocean in color.

the wind will push
the swings on an
empty swing set,

the fences will
remain unpainted,

bicycles will
no longer parade
down the streets,

the elbows and
the knees will
remain unscathed

and somehow
they get by
without ever
knowing
the answers
that cell phones
can’t provide them

I wish
I believed
in god;
that way,
I’d have
someone
to blame
and thank.

We are elaborate animals made of wood
earth, flowing like water into the veins
of the sky.

The sun being a fist of lava, and the night
being an enticing molar—we are
a succession of tides, being swallowed
by successions of day; and how beautifully
we wilt in the presence of joy.

The moon may be nothing
but a luminous
stone

and to eat the poetry of it
is how one chokes
on love

but the romance of morning
is that if by midnight
you are alive, that is joy.

terrible advice
from someone
telling you
how to live
your life

something as simple
as suggesting what
movie to watch or
what book to read or
what music to listen to

it may have impacted
their life in a certain way
but that doesn’t mean
it’ll impact yours

do what you like on your
own terms and live your
life the way you want to

I suggest you don’t take
any depressing advice
from this poem or the
gates of my persona
will flood with contradiction

i’m not sure what it is
about being a stranger
that makes them all seem so beautiful
the faces in the crowd
blend together
but not before i notice
every single one of them.
i’m not sure what it is
about abandoning their identities as strangers
that makes them all seem so beautiful
strangers are strange
and i think we all become strangers
to ourselves at some point
and so
aren’t we all beautiful to ourselves
at some point
too?

when a boy shows you his hands
bare except for the dust
he’s begging you to look past
take them in yours.
squeeze them once.
twice.
say without speaking
that you understand that the valleys
in his palms were meant to cradle
shooting star wishes
that he’s allowed to still hope for.
when a boy shows you his eyes
of milk and crimson and melanin
a bloodshot vein for every night he can’t sleep
let him shut his eyelids.
say without speaking
that you understand that the black hole pinpricks
of his irises hold more than the universe
should allow.
when a boy shows you his soul
shivering but still working toward friction
iced over but still working toward melting
let him come to rest next to yours.
say without speaking
that you understand that he is lonely
and that his silence speaks volumes
and that you kept his treasure close
because you love him.
when a boy shows you his hands
show him your hands.
when a boy shows you his eyes
show him your eyes.
when a boy shows you his soul
show him that
this is a comfortable place to rest it.
when a boy shows you the hardness that shaped him
show him the softness
that you have in store.