Inspiration overflows
The edges of a lephrechaun’s
*** of gold. And it vanishes
As frequently, as does
The end of a rainbow.

They ordered velocity at the top of the list,
Pure speed the most high of achievements.
She was young, a famed prodigy
But her talents were no longer relevant
When her limbs lengthened
And her skin began to lose definition
For who wants anyone ordinary?
If only you can race to the goalpost,
swing your flag, and keep running
Quick, quick, because time
And other’s disappointment
Is chasing at your feet.
But when that day finally comes
Where you can no longer continue

At that break-neck speed,
And people cease
To acknowledge your feats,
Will there be anything left
In you to keep striving?
Or have you burned out too quickly?

Blasphemy,
He had a whole page
Of facts about me
An entire biography
I had written myself
From blabbering
But when I set down
To write his
Only a name
Was scrawled in ink
Kind words? A bright face?
But what did he look like
When the moon only shone
On glass fragments
And the air turned dark
From the absence of voices?
I saw Jesus in his heart
He spread his abounding love
By simply talking with those
Who were looked down upon
But besides his acts from a far,
What do I know that he has told me
In hushed, timbre tones
Sober with intentionality?
Shame-faced, I think
“Nothing.”

[Impatience. Uncertainty.
How do you know when it's done drying?]

I could smell the asphalt
As the road was paved,
A perfect rendition
Of all I hoped to achieve.
Did I step too early,
Making indents,
That could not be removed?
Did I stand by, as a storm
Passed through, and
Knocked over trees
Onto the drying ground?
Or was I the storm,
taking chainsaws
To the cypress trunks,
Muddying the path
I had anxiously anticipated?
And was it that very nervousness
That made me finish
Before I had even started?

Staring at this paper, 

I can barely breathe--
The prose shows too much of me.
Hiding behind these leaves of ink,
Is a person who barely speaks
Except through crumpled sheets
Of muffled lines, weak at the knees.
Where does my cursive lead?
To an illegible land of pain and grief?

There was a resurgence of relief
Deep in my chest,
My body settling in my seat,
The cogs in my brain slowing--
But then I looked at the time
And saw that I was already late
For the next task
I had to complete
Do the challenges never end?
How do we strive for peace
In a society that doesn’t condone it?

She never met his eyes.
it was not intentional,
yet she knew it was not right.
Perhaps she was afraid
That once he saw the trellis
To her mind, he would climb inside
And realize she was a fraud.

Blanketed by chimney sweeps
And coal dust the color
Of wilted childhood innocence,
I sat before the fireplace,
Crisscrossed, wondering
If my tears were enough
To put out the burgeoning flames
And clean the filth on my skin
Yet, I knew, only One’s blood
Could wash it away

When we look at the formative years
Of our lives, in docile innocence,
We see so many faults—
Things we must fix, or else
We risk living our whole lives
on repeat. Is it too hard to think,
That sometimes, we change
Too much, and end up so far
From any semblance of good,
That we are worse than before,
As we were in our youth?

It’s funny how our self-doubt
Is the basis of poetry
And it’s even more humorous,
How that is the very thing
We have to get past
To write it.

My own disobedience
Trailed behind me
In a squeaky red wagon
Tired and rusting,
Burdened from its
heavy accumulation
of grief and self-criticisms

How do you know when someone
Is meant to be in your life?
Is it a feeling, an ever-present,
glowing “yes,” that sings?
Or is it a subtle voice,
One barely daring to speak,
noting how gentle he stands,
how your posture lightens
When he enters the room?
Is it the kindness of his hands,
or the intentionality of his words?
His voice is rolling hills,
quiet and genuine,
But loud and boisterous
When he needs to be.
A serene peace,
a deep understanding
Of where his feet should be
Standing and direct,
yet never raised,
Or sitting and patient,
waiting for another soul
to sit beside him and ask:
“So who’s this Jesus?”
I want to be that person.
but is that seat filled?

Am I supposed to sit
in a different row entirely?
Lord, what is this wall,
this barrier, blocking me
From connecting?

My eyes were deep holes,
Poring into him,
Mouth sluggish as it
Searched for the words;
But they were malformed,
They were broken limbs,
Unable to be righted
So, i pulled out a pen
And placed the paper
in his hands. Read this.

I spoke slow, measured
Because written word
Was yet to fail me
Compared to the treachery
Of my weighted tongue

Give me the reins--
This terrain feels
Unbearably unsafe.
Dusk on your face,
The prairie dogs chase us,
Nicking the horses--
I’m forced to admit
side saddle was a bad choice.
The sun divorces
The smoky sky,
I felt the saddle slip
straight to the side.

A wrangled diaphanous existence--
I swam through window-panes,
Staring blankly at apartments.
Was my hand always this pale?

A slow capillary refill, a body
not worth the stale mass
I occupied within hollow walls.

I fumbled as I fell--
I waited for the ground,
And frowned
When it did not come.
I had failed so miserably
Yet, it frightened me
To know that I could
Fall still more egregiously--
A desperation seized me
To meet the bedrock
And stand on my own

Two feet.

Silence comes in so many shades--
Those of blue things unsaid,
or honeyed marigold,
Dancing around our heads.
There is the umber of dark,
of hearing nothing,
Yet sensing eyes in the smog
--and the sterile white,
of trepid understanding.
I value silence above all things.
Because, in it, one voice speaks
He reaches out, quelling the shades
To one of a deep pink,
An affection so rich,
That words cannot begin to express
how it fills him.
So, he shows it through silence.

That’s not what I meant,
How come erasers
don’t offer recompense?
Should’ve used a pencil, not a pen,
As I tried to make sense
of the contents of my head--
Fumbling with my hand,
Trying to use my left,
To craft an illegible land
I am bound to forget.

The man’s neck craned eerily
Over his shaking cup of coffee,
As if the bones in his neck
Were disjointed, hanging loosely
There was a distance to his eyes
As if they were thinking, thinking
But never quite seeing things
I kept my distance, like most others,
But he insisted on talking,
Mumbling ravaged thoughts,
As if he didnt see the frightened
Posture and body language
Of all those around him

I often think,
when scrimmaging
Among traffic,
that the city seems to
Swallow you.
Isn’t it strange,
how some people
Find that comforting?

Sometimes we forget
How many of our habits
Are in honor of someone

Calm yourself down, child.
They spoke in gentle tones
Words suppressed, mild
Their reassurances
Sank uselessly like stones.
My fingers flicked away
Everything they claimed
To own--
Broken bones, a shriveled soul;
Who is a child
If not a fully inflated balloon,
Full to the bursting
Before scandalous wild
And shaking sorrow
Maliciously chipped away
Their countenance,
Puncturing the elastic
Until the vibrance
Lay in a thousand
Stretched pieces

I hope I have not been unkind,
Or muddled the world
With swine-like words.
Put my life on rewind;
Moonwalk my shoes
Back to the first time
I saw your eyes---
Uncertain, but kind
Did genuine disgust
Scare you away?
What can I say
To convince you
It was all a lie,
A scathing mask
Plastered on my face,
Always trying to dissuade
Unwelcome emotions
From broadcasting
Through the way
I say your name?