A question? A response.
He leads her onto the floor.
A thought? A wonder.
"It's crazy how someone-i(m)p(e)rfect-could feel so perfect in this moment."
A move? A dance.
He sways her into his arms.
A desire? A plea.
"If only he realized-finally-
that I only wanted this moment."
A pause? An end.
She sighs...

A question? A response.
He lead her onto the floor.
An action? An excitement.
He didn't even know.
A move? A dance.
She wanted to be in his arms.
A smile? A plea.
She only wanted this.
A pause? An end.
Thank you...

Dear, little, itty, bitty pencil…
You are rough, ragged, and pitted,
Left with no words to say, but
Those that are as dull as your
Flattened, grey tip.

I commend you for your service,
Being used by all, yet left with
No way to erase your mistakes.

Why are you itty bitty?
Have you just been used so much
That you lack the endurance
Of a sword freshly sharpened?

Instead, you’re overdone in the
Firey kiln of vocabulary.

Misting sprinkles float right above, then grace the gentle ground.
How beautiful is the intensity surrounding that falling.

Sprinkle sprinkle.
Your eyelashes twinkle
To exemplify the radiance
In the rain dance.

Building trickles take me back to remind me of your town,
Our town, the town we made our own once you set out in your calling.

Trickle trickle.
How do frequently fickle
Memories still glance
To that rain dance...

Intense patter. Pitter patters fling towards my window now.
“Wake up, wake up! You can’t drift now... Gaze upon the sky’s enthralling.”

Pitter patter,
The rain still chatters.
Their numbing little trance
To keep me in the rain dance.

I wanted words; you gave me conversation

I wanted smiles; you gave me laughter

I wanted music; you gave me symphonies

I wanted dinner; you gave me daydreams

I wanted flowers; you gave me gardens

I wanted your hand; you gave me your heart

I wanted friendship; you gave me love

I wanted the stars; you gave me the night

I wanted everything; you gave me you

When I look into those green eyes
all I see are stops signs sayin'
"chill out and breathe."

When you look at me,

it
seems

like this world is slowin' down, but
my heart keeps beating.

I can't
breathe.

The butterflies are way too much, yet
you keep on speaking

I don't believe you understand
how much I wanna hold your hand.

You call me beautiful,
well, guess what...

You're beautiful too.

One day, your hand will be mine to hold, with no care as to who may see; your name will be the sweetest name upon my lips and the most endearing of my thoughts.

One day, you’ll hold me, as I should be held, and I’ll be proud to be encompassed by your embrace; your eyes will still be the kindest sight I could gaze upon.

One day, with your ear softly nestled in the palm of my hand, I’ll hold your head closer, as you kiss me like I should be kissed; your hair will brush like satin ribbons through my fingertips.

Your warmth will be my favorite season; your shampoo, my favorite scent; your shoulders, my favorite shape; you, my favorite sensation.

One day, you’ll pledge yourself to me, and only me, and I’ll be proud to call you mine. Our mornings and nights will become my favorite time of day.

Dinner won’t just be a meal; a date won’t just be on a calendar; "goodnight" will no longer mean "goodbye."

One day, life will still go on, and work will continue, but it will all be with you, so life and all that it contains will be better. Sunsets will glow brighter, your arms will hold me tighter; the lake, even more so, will glisten, and to your soft words, I will gladly listen.

One day, with a dream, but, more importantly, with each other, your family, your future, will be mine, will be ours.

One day, in each day, we’ll be one, because you are the one for my every day.

An open mic, an invitation, a couple minutes of self expression: simple.
Each artist is to each other as two books are, unread, undiscovered, and uninterpreted: unique.
Not every man can claim his prize. There is no one wise
enough to say which is better than the other,
But rather
A few truths to offset the lies
Behind a person's conscience. They try.

I need to write.
I need to express my ideas in a way that make sense.

I need to write.
I need to dissolve my thoughts onto paper, no matter how intense.

I need to write.
I need to share the knowledge I've obtained and make an impression.

I need to write.
I don't know in what form I'll create this, but this is my intention.

And she jumped
She jumped out of her comfortable, plush launching pad
And she tried
She tried to set every fan to crosswind towards
And she hoped
She hoped that, when she jumped, her cape would carry her
And she fell
She fell onto the shagged carpet, on her hands and knees
And she did
She did all of this, yet she moved on to more fun
And she went
She went on to ride her bike, more confident in her peddling, than jumping
And she knew
She knew that the ground was much safer

A desk. A desk behind me and to my left.
How delicate is the flower upon that desk,
Bright, filled with color, but not for long.

She has been plucked, picked.
This means she was chosen,
She is special,
But how long before she fades?
I hope she and the flower beside her
Hold on to that color,
But they’d have to be fake to do so.

A flower, two flowers, lie delicately
On an empty desk.
One is full, whose petals radiate with
A pink glow, while the other, a little more sparse.
The former has an ant crawling on it, while
The latter twinkle, delicately shivering in the
Air conditioning.

Two flowers,
Two entirely different stories,
Stuck at the same desk.

Don't you think today is a beautiful day?
It rained, but that's okay.
The weather doesn't define a day, nor a book its cover- Wait, scratch that, reverse it... Oh! But my words don't matter!

Whatever other cliché you can think of, it still pales in comparison to the glimmering, glittering, glistening giddiness I heard in your words, like a small child after indulging in his second juice box.

I felt it in your smile, though I couldn't see it. So strong, it broke through the foggy break in an unforgiving sky. It was the kind of feeling so strong to radiate through my flesh like building, blistering, bubbles about to pop in a *** of boiling water.

Oh, but the sun was so bright today!
Its ultraviolet burn into my skin... an exhilarating feeling, like tears at the end of a good movie, without an inkling of sadness within a thousand mile radius, like puddles after a cleansing drizzle.

My, what good weather we're having, wouldn't you say?
It rained, but that's okay.

A jack of all trades and a master of none.
What does this mean to you?
I have my hands in a thousand cookie jars when I should have my hand in one.

A jack of all trades and a master of none.
What does this mean for me?
I need to survive financially, yet I urge to have some fun.

A jack of all trades and a master of none.
What can I mean with my talent?
I don't know where I'll end up or how,
but out of all of the possibilities
for a future... I need...

There’s a reason these pieces of entertainment
have earned themselves the title of “puzzles.”
You would think that once you sat down with them, that
it’d be relaxing,
                            it’d be fun,
                                               it’d be easy.
But they’re not.
They’re confusing, rightfully so.
And once you finally think you understand them,
they throw a cu
                           rve
                                 ba
                                      ll
They don’t fit. They seem so stubborn, so misunderstood.
But this isn’t their fault,           entirely.
This complementary relationship requires my eyes.
I   must    see   the big   picture.
I need to
                                        stop
                                                and understand
how important every detail is.

This task requires
patience,
                                     so I wait.

I wait for the perfect piece, an inner piece,
In all its beauty, to complete the picture that was envisioned.

pretty little itty bitty tinker toys
and temperamental sentimental emo boys
both intricately cute
and intimately mute
it’s the little things that count to mounts of many joys

So many questions
     with so many answers,
          but just as I think I know,
               you make me even curiouser.
So long I've known you,
    your heart, your charisma,
          but just as my words slip,
               you become another enigma.
So what do I do now?
     Can I ignore our history?
          I may never try to get an answer.
               You may just remain a mystery.

Sleep ‘till you wake up
No need to make up
For anyone
Or anything

Rest and relax now
No need to stress now
Just clear your head
And go to bed

Dreams will be here soon
Focus on now, soon
You’ll see the way
It’s another day

Closing your eyes, hush
Sounds minimized, hush
It’s all you need
Just go to sleep

Just go to sleep.

Take me past the city limits,
Away from metal, structural rivets.
Down those back roads, through the divots,
To see the dream, but also live it.

To the boiz...
I hope you’re strong enough.
I hope you can carry this responsibility,
because, yaknow, when you pick her up,
get her Snapchat,
slide into her DMs,
it’s important that you support her.
Hold her tight.
With her feet swept out from underneath her,
she has nothing left to support her
but
you.
If you give out,
someone’s about to fall...
in all of the wrong ways,
and here’s an inside tip...
it won’t be you who’s falling.
Yes, to the boiz,
you know I say this with well meant intentions.
I say this with honesty
and love,
but also with the understanding that
if something is dropped,
It’s most likely to break.
To the boiz,
you’re walking a slippery *****.
Don’t slip up.
Just keep this in mind.

I wonder what it’s like to be a balloon.

I wonder what it’s like to be let go in the middle of the night.

I wonder what it’s like to float until I become one of the stars.

I wonder what it’s like to become so indistinguishable that I disappear.

I wonder what it’s like to ascend through the atmosphere so independently and infinitely high.

I wonder what it’s like to drag that coarsely iridescent ribbon to those heights.

I wonder what it’s like to succumb to the pressure inflicted on my epidermis, causing me to suddenly pop.

I wonder what it’s like to feel that reverberating ripple across my skin as I disperse into handfuls of geometric tears.

I wonder what it’s like to float so high, unrecognizable, only to fall apart.

I wonder how painful it is to be a balloon.

I wonder what it’s like to be a balloon.

What's a sentence?
A group of words and thought?
No, silly, it's not.

What's a novel?
A group of sentences and plot?
Not really, it's not.

Then what is this,
With books upon it's shelves?
That is the doorway to the lives of many who dream to no longer sit by themselves.

Go dancing
And leaping
And flying
And bounding
And twirling
And lifting
And laughing
And smiling
And don’t lose hope,
It’s never gone.
Maintain patience,
And you know you’ve won.

You’re never alone,
So just stop chasing.
One will think you’re great,
Maybe even amazing.

Don’t waste time worrying,
It’s worth the waiting,
And that’s when you’ll feel
Your heartbeat elating.

You’ll get your surprise
When it’s least expected,
Like when he ran through the rain
And decided to chance it.

You never once thought
One was looking out for you.
The unexpected best friend, a gentleman...
Him. Who knew?

My writing is not like the others',
The pin-pricked prowess of principal in
another author's cite is indifferent to mine:
The spice in soliciting that salivating bite,
the singe that would make Tobasco sauce cry-
My words have no such gripe.
Instead, I write
A mellow slumber that is my words,
Carefully thought of, written, or typed.

Wispy white brushstrokes break
as rainbow ribbons reach to take
in a dusty, dusky sky
to accentuate snow glazed textures below.

The sun barely peaks over
as centralized cities streak lower
through streetlamp speckled speedways
to accompany westward waving waters

Flaming twinkles,
crystal lights.
Gleaming sprinkles,
flickering bright.

This is the city of stars at night.
This is the draw to a westward flight.
Los Angeles, California.
My, what a sight.

Puzzle pieces,
Pretty pieces,
Punny, pretty, little pieces.

Lovely, little
Puzzle pieces
Play a part pretty places.

Pick apart
The puzzle pieces.
See the playful pieces play

To put together
Punny puzzles,
Purposefully planned and made.

Oh, yes,
Pretty puzzles,
Practically perfect in every way.

It’s funny how you can see somebody on a regular basis,
But not know them at all…
How you can see the outward appearance,
But not see who they are?

There’s a guy I know, or… I think I know him.
I do not know his name.
He tries to dress well; He slicks his hair back, but…
Who’s he gonna impress?

I keep these thoughts to myself, because I’m afraid to ask.
Really, I’m embarrassed.
We both laugh and take advice from the same people.
Are we really dif’rent?

He stands short of height and expectations,
There with a crooked smile.
He appears to have a positive energy about him.
I can only guess why.

It’s funny how these thoughts take a tumble in my brain,
Yet they don’t escape my mouth.
Maybe I should speak up. This is another human being.
…
Maybe this isn’t funny at all.

Have you ever noticed how when two professionally involved individuals shake hands,
their respective hands remain congruent,
synonymously shook,
right meeting right....

meanwhile, when couples hold hands,
their respective hands remain mirrored,
fingers reflectively intertwined and interlocked,
right meeting left?

Is this a testament to “opposites attract”?
Is this what they mean?

It’s crisp, it’s sweet.
It’s soft, it’s bitter.
It’s all these things
Because it’s winter.

It bites, it burrs.
It quickens, it slows,
It acts like a cat,
A creature that knows.

A hug, a kiss,
“Hello”, “Goodbye.”
You want to hold on,
But also to cry.

A time, a tick,
A whisper, a reason,
Yes, it was fun,

For only a season.

Why I cry, I don’t know...
Maybe from the sunset’s glow
Or from the thought of you having to go,
But still I reminisce
And I refuse to miss
A single detail in my remembrance.
Of your eyes from that dance
And the smile in your chance.
I hope it never flees,
The picture that I see,
So I quote the very memory
In my works of poetry,
And as such poetry exists,
So does my desire to list
And (re)listen to the voice that I miss.
There’s nothing better than memories such as this.

Sitting on a cold, hard, wooden floor,
leaning against cold, hard, rocky walls,
listening to cold, hard, heartfelt lyrics,
writing some cold, hard, rough draft poetry;
hoping for a little warmth,
like a few left feet on a wooden floor,
sparking like two frictional stones,
while listening to your steadily cool heartbeat
to motivate this rough draft into a masterpiece of marinated inspiration.

So many sleepless hours
And a handful of tired showers
All for a night that’s ours,
A time that is timeless.

And all of the work up until then
Will prove to be rewarding, my friend,
As all of those hours will be forgotten when
Time stands still for us.

Let me tell you a story about an object, a rumbling, roaring object.
Sometimes, it screams.
Sometimes, it flutters.
Sometimes...
it doesn't know what it wants to do,
But it follows me everywhere. If there's one thing it is sure about,
it's that it doesn't like to be ignored,
But it is.
It makes these noises like a rhythmic chant,
repetitively calling out to me, yet here's the catch...
I don't know how to answer.
Everyone has this.
Everyone knows this,
But everyone inevitably ignores this
because they
Hear the screams,
Feel the fluttering,
But they don't know what to do.
However,
It's when this thing aligns with somebody else's
that all is made right.
We dance to a beat, our personal drum line. Sometimes,
we dance to the beat of somebody else's drum, but this is not wise.
It's when we dance to the beat of our own drum,
this screaming, pathetic thing,
that we find our true place,
and it's when our drum happens to rhythmically align with another's drum
that we begin to know why everything didn't make sense before now.
And so, we dance.

Oh, that?
That little trinket- I nearly forgot- really.
Little trinkets, tinkering tangible objects,
can be quite fun, believe me.
I’ve had my fair share of fond memories.

You know the saying, “Reduce, reuse, recycle.”
Sometimes I do that with my words.
Reduce, let loose, reuse, abuse, recycle-
the cool thing with words is that they are multifaceted,

But, gosh dangit, sometimes there aren’t rhyming words with “recycle”.... So you do just that: recycle- again (and again, and sometimes again, but, this time, paraphrased)

Anyways. Unfortunately, my tired brain forgets,
So unless I jot it down well,
those goals with their multi-facets,
I underestimate them until they reveal themselves.

By this time, it may be too late,
but I forget how I’m young.
However, If I were to be blatantly
honest, hearing this, at first, stung.

Growing up, you hear about lists
and how people want to accomplish
certain things- you get the jist.
The standard I set for myself flourished

In the environment I was given,
but only after I was old enough to drive,
know how finances operated for livin’,
so that I may be successful. To thrive.

I’m sorry to bore you with my words:
my tales of unforeseen potential.
Growing up is fun, but I’ve learned
how the use of those trinkets are circumstantial:

You gotta know when to take advantage of them.

She should have written a book, I wish,
Her eyes having seen more words than mine; her ears having heard more tone.

She should have written a book, you see,
Her wisdom beyond her years, she knew, she held an everlasting soul.

She should have written a book, I know,
For books defined her past, and books, I know, she read them through.

She should have written a book, but now
Her story remains unknown to all; her posterity stands anew

I zone out, staring at neon towers
An intercom beeps, “we’ll be boarding shortly” and I snap
Out of my days.
I’m out of days,
Days I want to be lost in and have forgotten all at once.
          What happened here?
Lost in heartbeats and honey whisky…
A sweetly resounding lullaby or siren song
I can’t decipher, but I’m held nonetheless.
Memories shimmer through my mind like the lights on the water, neither of which I’ll expect you to understand.
You won’t because you can’t.
“And that’s okay.”
That’s your catchphrase.
You tell me it’s, “okay.” You say that a lot,
And for once in my life,
I believe it.
How could I not when you speak out of earnest?
Your eyes as sweet as chocolate chips,
As rich as fresh espresso-
I tremble at the sugar rush.
I crumble at the withdrawals.
So reality strikes again in my lonesome.
Thoughts flicker in my head like hollywood movies whose colors have faded sepia,
Because that’s all they are now.
Dusting the fog from my eyes, out of my days come nights, and in the nights, neon lights.
“Last call, boarding flight…”
          It stays here.

I like the rain,
the subtle chill I feel before we meet,
with clouds to soften brassy spring beams.

It’s my favorite hiding place.

Its fluorescent shimmer on the lake,
encasing my bedroom in endless waves
of whirring winds to dampen loving moans.

I disappear and return all at once.

I feel its warmth, its cool, its caress,
how it speaks in charming whispers.
I think it likes me too.

You can tell by my teeth that I don’t have the time to take care of myself
You can tell by my face that I don’t really mind forgetting myself
Wouldn’t know by my smile how hard I try to hide regretting myself
In the highs or the lows, I don’t know how I can stop upsetting myself