His fists were paint brushes
The holes in the wall
Abstract art
His knuckles bruise as does his mind
Because that hole in the wall isn’t changing his life
Beauty in his pain
His thoughts thrown on the wall in a fit of rage
But those holes aren’t as deep as those in his mind
Filling with self hate
Regret
Dried paint
Lies.

Hey, sometimes Bob Dylan changes your mind.
Like how you're thinking' Cohen and then you
Go to the closet where the records are hid and
Face-high you're being stared at by that man
On the cover of
"Bringing It All Back Home"
And you quietly apologize
And wish him a belated happy birthday
And light a cig
And turn the world on
Outside your open slider door
For what always feels like the first time.

Hey, sometimes it takes a whole poem to give you something to do.

Who should you write poetry for?

Write for someone
Who cares enough to read it
And have the words etched upon
Their hearts,
Never fading.

Write for someone
Who knows you enough,
To know
That you are a mixture of a thousand emotions
You never show
And your poetry is a gateway
To your heart.

Write for someone,
Who would willingly walk down
An abyss with you,
Not someone, who walks into it,
Unknowingly
Overwhelmed by your words' intensity

Write for someone,
Who is many different people,
For many different people,
And still is all of them for you,
A side he only shows to you.

Write for someone,
Whose love is not a secret,
Confessed in a hushed tone,
Write for someone who loves you,
And is unapologetic about it.


Write for someone,
Who sees a part of them
Every time your eyes meet,
Write for the part
Of yourself
You see in them.

Write for someone
To whom you actually mean something
And your words will never go unnoticed,
Dissolving in wind
The moment your lips set them free.

There are 10 kinds of people in this world,
and binary accounts for them all.

They're happy and sad.
They're ones and zeros.
Villains and heroes.
Villains, yet not all bad.
Despite everything life decides to hurl;
Despite every brick ball of fear
Through the stained glass windows of their minds,
Through it all, they survive.
They're angry and glad.
They're happy and sad.

And in their duality, they're still smiling there
at your sharp hasty words
at your venomous hurt
that you wish so desperately they, too, shared.