There once was a boy with chameleon skin,
But his eyes told a story the more he gave in.
There was no hiding, as he caught the attention
Of a helpless little star, stranded in the horizon.
Familiar with the longing, she yearned to fall fast;
However, she couldn’t, held by the hurt of her past,
Until, one day, she saw the twinkle in his eye.
“How could a chameleon outshine the night’s sky?”
She questioned her reality, bound by insecurity,
But dared to lean further into his sincerity.
One night, she tripped, and out of bounds she fell,
But she couldn’t help but dance, mesmerized by gravity’s well.
“How silly I must look” she said, approaching the ground,
But all else disappeared once she heard a familiar sound.
His mindful inquiry, she never knew she needed.
Her heart began to blaze, “that’s all I want,” she pleaded.
She couldn’t help but be inspired by the sight
Of the twinkle in his eyes, refracting her own light.
Lightyears of observation presented a reality,
One she so wanted to feel, but could not really see.
She oft’ recalled the hour that her heart was still,
Remembering his freedom, while he perched upon that hill.
There once was a boy with chameleon skin,
But she loved how he shined as he failed to blend in,
So as she saw his heart, she really hoped he knew
That while the whole world could watch her, she told him
“I see you...”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My room is looking emptier than it ever has before,
Got the clothes on my back; boxes are packed, sitting by the door.
Oh, how this is happening oh so soon feels like a dream,
But by the time the week is up, it’s me, my dorm, and the university.

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.

Take a second to jot down a few words directly into the post box.
Be thankful for the moment you got away today and drove with the windows down to pick up pizza for dinner.
You didn't want to step away from your computer,
but your parents told you to, so you ran the errand.
Driving...
yeah...
hm...
What a nice relief.
Remember the music that played and how the wind brushing your arm reminded you of that liberating feeling when you would ride motorcycles in Estero, and it felt like nothing mattered...
You just drove and hummed whatever song made you feel the happiest.
yeah...

Okay.

Your procrastination is over, so seclude yourself out on the lanai;
brace for the long night ahead.
Maybe your friends will wish you a good night and it'll motivate you for the long haul.
It hasn't been too long since you last stayed up until 2... 3... maybe 4am, right?
Put on that playlist. (It will help.)
Let Son Lux provide that numbing white noise,
loud enough to keep you energized, quiet enough to let you type.
Maybe you'll stay out until you get it done.
Maybe you'll just get it over with tonight.
Maybe you'll want to stay out, to see the sunrise.
Maybe,
but for now, finish up your word doodles,
your little mindless rants,
so you can apply your mind to the "important things".
You'll make the best of it. (I know you will.)
Maybe you'll have fun with it.
Maybe you'll be proud of it.
Maybe you'll forget everything you've learned,
Maybe,
but for now, this is your time to write,
your time to prove yourself,
so you can tell the rest of the world,

"I did it."

Goodbye, my dear friend, for now.
I’m gone for only a day,
But I know that you know how,
for our next minuet, I’ll await.

Goodbye, my dear ol’ Chickering,
‘Til the next time I’ll sit and then
I’ll listen to your diamond ring
Bless my ears again.

Thank you, yes you, my dear,
For offering your friendly counsel,
For lending me your patient ears
Over years and through tears as well.

Just a day, my dear, lil’ piano,
Until I’ll peer again into your musical window.

Tell me 'bout your family
Tell me how you've been

Have you found your saving grace
With every act of sin

I hope you know, with every word
I am captivated

With every poem I've ever heard,
I have cultivated

A passing transaction
Of humble attraction
For you, my friend.


Tell me 'bout your heartache
Tell me how you feel

Have you ever seen a thing
So precious and surreal

I hope you know that you are loved
With no hesitation

With every song, I come undone
Accept my invitation

For conversation
With consideration
For you, my friend.


Tell me you won't leave me
Tell me we're not done

Please leave no words left unsaid
Or any song unsung

I hope you know this is the time
It's ours for the taking

With every hour, before you leave,
Just know that I'm making

A heartfelt pleading
Of hidden feeling
For you, my friend

Star light, star bright,
Twinkling with a neon sight,
How I love thy brilliant light,
And marvel in your twinkling might.

Shooting star, longing sigh,
Flying through a misty sky,
How I love thy wondrous why,
And stay along ‘till you draw nigh.

I wish I may, I wish I might,
I wish to understand your plight.
How I love thy marvelous height,
And hope you’ll stay throughout the night.

Flying fast, flying high,
Right before my very eye.
How I love thy heart’s imply,
But hate to have to say goodbye.

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.

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?

waiting
              for
                   the day
                               that you
                                              will
                                                     write me
                                                                      a few
                                                                                kind
                                                                                         words
                                                                                                    ........................

5 pennies in a nickel…
10 pennies in a dime…
25 pennies in a quarter…
100 pennies in a dollar…
Each penny plays a particular part in
the grand scheme of economic "advancement"

Money is exchanged.
It comes…
It goes…
Some people see its worth,
while others don’t.

It makes people happy,
But then again,
It only brings sadness at the same time.

It's counterproductive.

Over the counter, at the minimum wage shopping center,
Minimal glances are changed,
For minimal durations…
Each penny is a part of a whole…
There’s a price to be paid…
It moves into the hands of another.

I love how rain causes
My toes to tingle in
Shivering excitement as my
Flip flops flip, squish, and
Mush their way through the lot.

I love how rain turns
My windshield wipers into
Little syncopated skids that
Squeak like a dog’s new toy.

I love how rain leaves
A resonating glisten on the
Fragile, damp grass,
Causing me to slip as I
Go on to class.

Innocent girl
You have no hate in your heart
You only see the best
In people

Innocent girl
Precious in all that you are
You deserve the wholesome things
So little

You have to understand
How the world is imperfect
And no boy or any man
Should make you feel less worth it

Pretty little girl
Let no one challenge your art
It’s unique in every purpose,
It’s fragile

Pretty little girl
Talented, careful, and smart
Keep that steadfast, selfless love,
It’s valuable

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.

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.

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.

Recently “minutes” or recently “hours”?
Recently, minutes were reasonably ours.
Like how I “recently” saw him at the grocery store,
And “recently” went back, hoping I might again.

Sure, we spoke…
Recently.

So I logged on, recently,
Just to see what’s up.
That’s how it always is,
And the status is always the same:
“Recently”

Days like today call for second dinners
Because days like today missed the one in the morning

Seconds dinners substitute one for the other
You get sleep, but miss the one
You miss sleep, but get the other
Though you hardly ever get the one,
You can still hope to get the other,
Because one bowl filled with satin glazed rings is just as promising as those midnight stars outside your window.
They both help you sleep
and the thunder begins to settle.

It shook me.
Like the buzzing of an early morning alarm, I was awoken from my sleep.
Into reality, I was thrown, and into the mini-van, I was packed away.
I didn’t want to leave, but I left with my family
And, by the grace of God, a fourteen hour drive landed us safely in Georgia.
Georgia… Ah, Georgia.
It had been a while since my last visit, though every previous time was voluntary.
In Georgia, they cancel school over a little rain,
While the eye of the storm hovers its dreadful head over my home,
As if to see what it could devour.
But it didn’t.
It didn’t succeed.
It didn’t quench its thirst.
It couldn’t devour.
It barely left a mark on my home, but the mark on the community was much larger.
This was a wake-up call to that community to commune, to partake in its purpose.
It was a call to me to partake in mine.
My calling, like a dream from a deep sleep,
Was awoken… and
It shook me.

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

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.

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.

Like swimming upstream,
Going against the grain,
Walking through a festival's crowd,
I cut into the package,
But I couldn't get through.
It was stuck.
Pressure
Would not
Suffice,

So it

Snapped.

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.

When I would visit Ohio, my grandma always said
certain things in Spanish, as to not flood my head.

I wish I understood that secret life she led
by interpreting her knowledge, I know to have been well read,

But now my striving hunger will never be quite fed,
for now those precious, foreign words are unforgivingly dead.

Oh, how I cry very often, at night while I’m in bed.
Regrets like these don’t go away, so I try to cope instead.

I’ll never forget her loving Spanish ***** (that memory’s never fled),
even though my nostalgic heart regretfully succumbs to dread.

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.

“I love you.”
“I know.”
Between the highs,
And the low,
In the times
When I’m alone,
That’s what love does.

It comforts,
And hides
In the corners
Of your mind,
Yet surprises
Just in time.
That’s what love does.

It takes
The chance
The percentage
Of circumstance,
The sacrifice
In glance,
And does what love does.

It conquers,
And pays
The cost,
Without delays,
As if it’s not much,
To stay,
Because that’s what love does.

It hugs,
It kisses,
It sees you
And misses,
Yer true love,
Rarely disses,
Because that’s what love does.

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.

were we dumb or were we clever
when we said we'd be together
did we really think that we
would end up where
we are
going to have a great adventure
it's just you and me together
so let's go have fun forever,
go exploring and endeavor
things like love.

I’m stuck between impatience and time moving too fast.
If only certain moments could hold off and last,
Yet let me be the first to set the record straight.
I know that, in the end, it will all be worth the wait.
I’m not here because I want to relive the past.
While times have been perfect, the idea is too vast:
To stay where you are, red, and not look for what’s ahead.
However, why is the future an idea i’m urged to dread?
While this time is exciting, and often inviting,
I see the circumstance filled with crying and spiting.
No, I’m not scared, or maybe I was.
I’ve learned that I can’t live that way, only because
I’ll suffer that way in this current time I’m in,
And living right now is already hard enough to begin.
I’m not here to sulk, i’m not here to brag.
I’m just impatiently enduring the drag
Of time, of now, wanting it to slow to yellow,
While I’m eager, insisting on life’s green light, “go.”
Time, a constant thing, still looks me in the face
To say, “you think you know it all, but I will set the pace”.
No matter the task, the toll, the race, I’m in it for the ride.
Meanwhile, I’ll tell my impatient indecisiveness that it’ll have to subside.
Maybe time is like traffic. “Do I gas it, or hit the breaks?”
Either way, I’m afraid of collisions, so that’s a risk I just won’t take.

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

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.