I want to hug
my son's son
60 years from now.

With beauty,
and pain,
and wonder,
and heartbreak
written into the lines
across my face.

Telling him
he is enough.
He'll always be enough.

There is this pair of sweatpants,
they sit in the bottom left drawer of my dresser.
Sometimes
I like to picture myself wearing them.

That comfortable,
snuggly feeling.
Like a warm hug
from an old friend
you used to crush on.

It's such an out there concept,
- but imagine if it happened.
Me
wearing those sweatpants
from the bottom left drawer of my dresser.
Or that black hoodie
that my mom got me two Christmases ago
the one that she special purchased because so it'd fit just right
Or any stained shirt ever
one that you can wear for comfort at home
because finally no one is watching.

I learned young
to button-up
so that there wouldn't be
as many eyes watching me today
so i can go and buy my favourite candy
from that gas station down the street.

And I always wondered
why some people's sunday best
was my only way to feel normal.

I was about 10
when I learned
that wearing comfortable
might get me stopped
by the police today.

I guess this is what it's like
to be true
north
strong
and free.

Whatever happened to the ambition
The youthful enthusiasm of dancing in the wild
As the synth rhythm guides each limb
In accordance to the sentiment given by the DJ


We were nothing more than broke kids


There was something beautiful about the way our spirits
Would float like wisps in the wind
Freefalling past the worries that held us back
From seeing the 5am sun

I write this, knowing that I will one day forget the colour of your eyes,

Devastation washed over, this was when I realized

I won’t be able to show you that the sun in the sky was something that I made for you.

Oh. My. God.

Where the hell have you been? You were hiding just inside the everyday normality of my story. When I first realized the waves you made on my shore I felt like I must learn how to play the piano just to replicate the pace my heart would get to every time I’m near you.

The comfort I get from being around you is like listening to music you never heard but adore the moment it comes on. You are like a song that everyone knows the words to. A modern-day Bohemian Rhapsody, a recapture of American Pie.

Not a long long time ago, I will never forget that your music would make me smile. Your words touch me deep inside, there won’t be a day this music dies. I know I don’t have a chevy but the levee’s not dry.

I struggle to grasp the concept of composure when the thought of you wakes me up in the morning. I drape my arm over my wishes of you being there. It’s not just love, it’s fantasy. Fantasy like the words lost in the winds between us, making me clutch the lyrics of a song that I want to sing for you.

I guess what I want to say is this, you are heard. I swear that the walls inch closer every time you speak just so they can listen to your voice more closely. The melody echoes off every surface, ever enchanting, promising me that if I stay silent I just might hear what beautiful sounds like.

Maybe I’ll never learn how to play the piano, I know that the keys to happiness are strung across the seemingly growing distance between possibility and reality. Because the fact of the matter is, I don't know how to play any instruments. But I promise that I will always dance to the music I hope you’ll play for me.

I am a warrior.

tell me that I am not,
and you will have some fiercely chosen words hurled at you
butnotdirectlyatyoubecauseimnotgoodatconflict.

you see
i have fought many a doubter,

kept at bay
without ever being a shouter.
mostly.

but, I am a warrior,
i go to war every day.
fighting against the overarching flames
entangling me in its’ depth.
forcing me to pry its' grasp away from my throat
giving me just enough air to say 'good morning.'

'I’m fine.'

Maybe it was the lighting,
But as you looked towards the rooms sky
I swore to you that the glistened dew stained
Your cheekbones, auburn.

It was the dimming glow that bothered mine.
I don’t know if was the environment,
Or the moon of currant, bleeding a signal that made
The mutts howl alongside you.

Your eyes, now faced with fears that knows
It can take over and plaster this town.
Fear subsiding into your crescent gaze
As you avoid looking at anyone.

I know you won’t hear me.
But I want to help you.