My breath, light as feather, words like dust—find it best
not to speak too much, lest I seem soft as a feather duster.
Dreams of a perfect body, shadowed by many premonitions,
permissions granted only by the mountains where I took life
by the heel—miswriting heal, and climbing that endless hill
toward closure.

I saw a fish in a teardrop, a sad smile crossing its face; and it
weighed the world on its scales. The river’s currents glistened
with depression— so I pushed upstream, crying a mountain’s
worth of water.

I fought not to wash myself away, lying beneath it all, while
an angel kissed my twisted hair; locked my thoughts in place.
Perfectly ready to die, dancing to a song of reoccurring suicide,
a melody only I could hear. Must entail the full act of dying,
feel the strings beneath your fingers— chords played in secret,
as if David himself taught me the strum. To be an instrument
to a horn, to hone your skills, to feel like a big man someday.

Think of this the next time someone says, “Yeah, I’m okay.”
So much hidden, beneath that quiet syllable, an entire ocean
of grief swallowed in one breath.

A relationship’s anchor— we could be falling in love or sinking
down, holding on for far too long, too shy to step fully into the
moment, being too hesitant to taste a worthwhile experience.
So awkward in time— yet the stars in a smile still flicker, asking
for a space in time, a little corner of the universe to stretch this
love beyond its natural season.

But seasonal heartbreaks are just another episode, and you
know how it goes— new loves spring up, and blossoming
overnight, only to end in snow.

We cling to them in desperation, but strange terrain prevails
dismay; hard to walk steady as every step sinks into the cold.
And still we rush— rushing to fall in love, slipping through
the snow, hoping this time the anchor holds, hoping this time
we don’t drown.

Where will the anchor fall down to?

Heart —
   hollow until tomorrow.
A man, a painter, once aimed so far
he broke his bow; his reach stretched
wider than his hands could hold.
Dreams, swollen with glory, dripped
    down the bristles of a hardened brush
— dipped in the wetness of tears,
     each stroke a storm, heavy with passion.

It starts with a pit —
    a seed pressed deep in the soil, a hollow
carved where something once stood,
a cave widening in the chest.
In the immensity of a workshop built from
cheap wood, tell me —  
                  where does a heart take root?

Cutting down those trees is mayhem waiting
to happen; for when the pit is flawed,
  the whole foundation caves.
And maybe that’s why we doubt
the truth we’re told.

They said,
    “the great tree fell.”
But if you never saw it fall yourself,
would you ever believe it made a sound?

A blemish across the mark of my skin —
screamed into a corner, I’ve screened my
eyes. My chest is like a TV screen, the flashes
of a dream —the world waits for me to
tell a vision.

If I write, I could write, so good and well —
my finger type: printing stories on these pages,
A dogs-ear bent down to listen, to serve the law
as it runs. how long the mile? A canine chasing
commands.

A man afraid of the light, finding comfort
in a shadow. shadowing the past, living
best when hidden in the shade of regrets.
our mistakes are perfect at throwing shade.

Shall I live the blemish of a dream —folded
onto itself, my best days creased like dog-ears,
marking important chapters of my life.

But a man so afraid of the light forgets there
are two kinds: the one that reveals his darkness,
and the one he’ll face at the end of his life.

Still — we must step out from the shadows
of our mistakes. Eventually, you find a time
to shine.

This heart to love — abrupt,
a door slammed open in the storm.

No warning, no gentle knock,
just the rush of something that's
too vast to hold.

And this face, a gallery of what remains:
a canvas carved by wounds, a battlefield’s
aftermath; a work of art painted by scars —
proof that breaking is its own design.