we forget who we were
when we become who we are
some build walls of concrete
as if to keep out toxic memories
but they seep between the mortar
the lies we told drip like thick blood
and we turn cold at the sight
as if she doesn't have blood
upon her hands, upon her teeth
it as if the unspoken progression
reaps deep and unfathomable fear
fear in which the past anchors her fangs
prehistoric and sharp
rip flesh from bone

The rib cage turns a familiar pale yellow,
Autumnal sun conjures swaths of warm air
Red fox colored leaves make bed for small fellow

But old man winter doth draft a plan
Across the meadows and through the land
He'll reap whats sowed- and not less than

Dust to dust one becomes at night
Though spring winds carry new life
Small creatures wake before the light

white sheets hide children
war sounds muffled by laughter
street cats to chase after

Do not let people shroud your morality, for when your bones turn to dust only it remains.

When you were seven,
You had been conditioned to react to the closing of a door
Like Pavlov’s dog, your reaction was impulsive and assuming
Only it wasn’t Pavlov’s dog floating in the above ground pool
Behind existential and translucent eyes
A worn Louisville rested in your left palm
You sat behind that open door,
Begging him to close it with every fiber of your being.

The frustrated poet runs his fingers through his hair,
then strikes the last word of his final verse in despair

Across town, a painter incinerates a wooden facade of a steeple
For the existential artist, hell is truly other people

But the sculptor who whittles his work with a knife
Is solely the one who values his life

For he understands that the process of creation,
Does not rest within pre-calculation

Talent is not a God given gaurentee.
It is earned through trial, error, and grit.

You knew right from the start
That you'd tear me apart
And yet you drew me in close as could be

You had baited your traps
You couldn't wait to unwrap
The guileless fly that was me

Sweet as lily of the valley on a crisp spring morning,
But thunderstorms brew like black tea
As white tails bound to cross hatched nests

protect your own heart
with the ferocity you
protect others

quarter til noon
maybe ive come too soon
and seems im waiting for Godot
just waiting for him to show
"on this ***** of an earth"
but for what it is worth

you made it tolerable.

the bad guy
tell his crossword puzzle lie
it don't matter she cry
mama don't turna blind eye

**** me with your words.

Take my mind to another dimension
Make me beg to be where your story begins,
and tease me with the ending.

Hold me close in the blue Bali waters,
and spoil me with sheets made of gold,
when we are under but cotton.

Let your lexicon ravage my mind,
for I do not kneel beneath a man unread,
A man whose mind has not left his own
A man that does not know that the devil is in the details
The sweet intricate details of a woman's mind.

i don't want to be a beautiful little fool
i want to chase the unknown.

I know that the light dims,
and I need not your confirmation.

My friend Billy stated unapologetically over earl grey tea and orange zest scones that the premise of his all-time favorite novel consisted of a man having *** with a goat.
With some resistance, and perhaps skepticism, I asked him, “Why?”
“Because the world would be incredibly ******* dull if we all just wrote about humans containing stardust.”
“Well, we are all technically…”
“I understand that. We are also full of water and feces, animated toilet bowls if you will, but I doubt that would flow exceptionally well from my calligraphy pen onto a textured piece of paper. Humans are often no more than a messy and selfish group of animals, governed by the illusion of creativity, law, and morality.”
“Is that why it was your favorite novel?”
“No, I liked it because it was ******* hysterical.”

Black bear in thicket
Soft trills of summer cricket
Blueberries so sweet

Fear feeds on self doubt
Starve it with your strength

I never understood how it was,
that poets could use words bigger than themselves.

And at some point
we begin to understand
as familiar hands
become soft with age
this is all we have-
and we are grateful.

Tragedy is heavy
It rests upon a gradient of scraped knees and broken hearts
Only those with tenacity will ever see the light

Suicide isn't a desire to die
Or some crestfallen out cry

It isn't some perverse fetish
Where eyes are fixed upon the wreckage  

It is a lack of will to continue
Life blurs through the rearview

Suggested to be an act of luxury
But **** the same old drudgery

"at what point do you give up?"
"never."
"but why? how does it make any sense to continue to hurt?"
"because i have seen you in bliss. the kind where your heart races and i know for fact you feel alive. you recognize that it is all somehow worth it. even if just for a moment."

I could not even love  myself.

It's ok
To not be ok
Okay?

I love you.
You are doing a good job.

Sometimes I like to calm the crazy by letting it all hang out.
My aura is a confetti pop.
Picking up the pieces gets a little hard sometimes.
So excuse my colorful mess of existentialism.

Cursed are the over thinkers
Not much worse than day drinkers

where the sidewalk ends
and the autumn woods call.

love isn't red
it is white
blinding
birth, ******, and death
our vision
our life
memories spin back
your face shielded
protected by the light
eyes so blue, embalmed in time

"count the ceiling tiles" the nurse joked
I wanted to joke
say I'd rather die
but seeing as I had just attempted that
perhaps I'd better lie

I do not see red.
My heart races.
My throat tightens.
I see nothing.
I feel nothing.
I am nothing, but what I am in this moment.
Broken walls, fractured fists.
No, I do not see red.

Black pane, white chips
My bones are cold
Watching this storm unfold

For once in your godforsaken life, just be happy for someone else.

poetry
fills in
the gaps
of my
soul.

Drip
Drip
Drip

I try to keep my anxiety in a bucket
Some days I can empty the pale with cold and sluggish hands

Other days the thoughts trickle out and so I grab my mop put out my “caution” sign

But today there’s a flood
I have a teacup during Katrina
Not filled with Earl Grey

But I try anyways.

The people we love the most, may wish nothing more than to hurt us so that they can feel a modicum of control and power in their own lives.
Like the black king, we must navigate the board with precision
We can choose to move with grace, or resentment
We can choose to set boundaries and demand self respect
Or we can allow them to continue to psychologically destroy and manipulate us out of fear
Fear that the relationship will disintegrate like a figment of the imagination
Fear of the thought of being alone, truly and unfathomably alone
And while we understand their traumas and their pain,
when we accept abuse,
we allow a scythe to cross our throats
because the substance itself is heroine
soon the pain and suffering, seeks out its kind
the kind of jaundice skin that clings to fragile bone
when we choose grace, we choose the lighter load
when we set boundaries and respect ourselves
we can begin to heal

Because your world was small,
I was trapped.

Destroy me.

Like Banksy’s work
I want to slide from my frame
in pieces

Break what is whole
to make more me valuable
But when I reach my limit

Please by god
Stop.

Draw a line, any line
Watch her cross it

Love her anyway

She will set your heart on fire
Be prepared to gather up the ashes

By God son,

She will paint your hometown red
But you will lust for her with every fiber of your being

The Devil works for the government.
Shocking.


Read the story?
https://www.wattpad.com/story/217974201-lucifer%27s-code

Don't bite the hand that feeds you
...Unless it is the only thing left

you're a sunbeam in a box
i am lost in summer equinox
taste like candy, look like gold
waiting on you to hold

Language ripples thought
Through soft Spanish undertones
By beryl waters

and just like that
we were strangers.

The law evolves
And with it our morality
Adapting within the confines
But changing to survive

Harsh desert winds
Give no thought to equity
Nor artic seas I'm sure

No it is the people
And their conquests we endure