A totalitarian mindset—
A fountain full of coins,
Weeping and tarnished. 

There was acid in the water,
Flowing over the glittering

Gold metal, ridding it
Of its brilliant color—
Why do we place all
Of our wishes on one coin
In a singular fountain?

Where was I when you were talking to me?
Moon-like dreams, but the side no one sees,
The harpooned surface taking hit after hit
To stay pretty.

Open my heart, Lord—
You do not need to
Surgically split it,
Or probe the pieces—
You know it inherently,
Without looking,
Every breath’s origin
Lies in you,
And it beats steadily
In your cupped hands—
I have never felt more
Peace in this world
Of broken smiles
And warped intentions,
Than when I trust in your
Image and your plan.

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?

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.

The weight of generations
Stuttered his steps--
Young legs, agile mind,
An intimidation
To those new to him.
But in small moments
of deeply anchored words
and acts of casual kindness,
The teddy bear of his heart
Was shown underneath.
His hands fidgeted with a knife
Constantly, a butterfly
Flittering through his fingers--
was that the speed of his thoughts?
What did he think, when he wandered
Through creeks of God’s creation?
He kept his hair long, as if afraid
To release the past,
But he clearly showcased
The Lord’s word on his back, deaf
To the voices that rebuked him.
Fluent in rolling jests, but also
Drawing wisdom as if from the earth
I thought he was talking to me. . .
One time. . . but I can never seem
To look people in the eyes.
Who is he, Lord?
I can only see
People as half alive
Without Your guidance.

Raining questions and

An umbrella of answers--

They roll and drip

Down the sloped sides,

Reaching one conclusion

As they are absorbed

Into the ground.

Jesus Christ does not

Dispel the questions;

He encourages them

And answers in gentle

Tones, unaltered by the

Torrential downpours.

What if I question myself?

What if who I thought I was. . .

Isn’t true anymore?
I don’t know If I can bear
The knowledge that I am,
And always have been,
A slick-tongued chatterbox.
Are my words only half-formed,
Unsure of themselves,
Even as they go into the world
As daggers, myself unaware
Of all the harm I’ve caused others?
My words have always been few. . .
I never meant to. . .
It seems my values have become
Optional—I cast a blind eye
To all the things that I do,

And disapprove of—
I wish I could be intentional
Instead of flustered and
Nonsensical when asked
Simple questions—
Is this why I am bad at chess?
I cannot see ahead,
I try to play smart and only
End up in a castled prison--
I am checkmated by my own
wide-eyed carelessness.

There was not much
Color left in me—
My cheeks were sullen,
Translucent in the sun--
And my hands seemed
To be incapable
Of any and all things.

I sat in despondency,
Letting my skin turn
To the muffled grey
Of radio waves
And confused voices.

Where was I?

I was working toward
The tide that had
Already pulled backwards,
Away from my feet—
And would not swell again
Until my legs had long
Stopped working.

I am buried in sand
On a littered beach,
Surrounded by the
Plastic waste
Of my past discrepancies.

I am only a mesh enclosure,
Weighed down by the rocks
Of my heavy soul.
Stones with engravings
Of my regrets and thoughts,
Pebbles written with “love”
And others “lost.”
I am made of brittle rocks,
Hunching under the weight,
breaking as I continue to walk.

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

When I think of a field,
Covered in dew,
Blanketed by night
And a smattering of stars,
I think of you--
Lying outstretched
In a copse of grass
Beside me,
Pouring out our hearts
To our lord and savior,
Jesus.

Every movement of his eyes
Was a cozenage—
A way to survey the world
Without dilating his pupils
Enough to share his thoughts.

I ran myself to the ground,
Desperate to uncover
What it was those eyelashes
Framed, sub rosa—

And now I walk the earth
On unstable fissures--
Waiting for the secret
That is not mine
To become my downfall.

I cannot bring myself to overcome
The smiling creature of doubt
Sitting pleasurably in my mind—
His hands rest on his lap,
Teeth on full display as
He watches the darkness
Overcome my expression,
Falter my typing hands,
And end the ambition
I arduously work toward.

All we’re living for. . .
With time, does that
Statement degrade?
Do we tweak it, here 

And there, justifying
The smallest changes?
Like an engine, pulled
Apart, piece by piece,
And re-assembled with
Shiny, new parts that
Have never been tested,
Do we remember the
Original, or have we
Burned the blueprints?
“I choose Jesus.” He
Thinks that the cross
Below his collarbone
Is enough, that it saves
All of the choices he
Never brings to God--
Is it weighing on him?
He uses scripture as a
Means to his own end,
But Jesus knows his
Heart, and He does not
Want a necklace--He
Wants well-intentioned
Thoughts & choked
Words that he cannot
Speak aloud to anyone
Else—He wants him
To see that his back is
Turned, that his hand is
******, & that he faints
To ask what his true
Motivations are. A
Cross necklace does
Not disguise a failing
Heart--and God only
Asks what it is he's
Living & fighting for?

Is it in the strength
of our bones
That make some
able to stand up
and easily
defend themselves,
Stating assertive words
and walking off
without glancing back--
While others sit meekly,
Laughing off the unease
as a beguiling face
says everything
they want to hear--
Not knowing how
They could retreat
From the situation?
Or is it a choice,
to replace our joints
With mettle
and forget
the complacency
Of our old selves?

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?

Reality cascaded around me
Like a waterfall before it crashes,
One you fight to break through,
Panting with anticipation for
The gold on the other side--
Except there is nothing more
Than a cave wall, dank
And dark, and full of echoes.

Ribaldric sentences,
Laughs and smiles
that we never meant.
Did either of us really want 

to chat that way?
Or was it a feigned requirement
we made up in our heads
Because we were taught,
as bumbling kids,
That something good
should always be bright,
Cheery, with no room
for the dark questions
And hard lines?

Fake it till you make it.
There was confidence
In his slate expression,
The stiffness of his walk
A methological swagger.
But his eyes of used
Charcoal and leather
Said Something different
What is it you are hiding?
What is the softness
In your heart that you
Are trying to harden?

When I was fourteen,
I stood tall in my skin,
Or at least, I thought
I did. But I was so small,
Taking up just enough
Space, thinking my name
Was not something
To be shared—
I did not know myself at all.

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

The illusion of shared smiles
And electrified nights--
Knowing someone basely

On how they were then
without exchanging names.

Even now, I look at those
Who are supposedly
Close friends, and wonder
What makes them more
than acquaintances?

That strain of connection
Appears out of reach,
Poppy seeds on the wind,
Mountains holding hands--
somewhere else entirely.

What is it those around me
Express through pointed looks
And fond gestures
That I cannot seem
to interpret?

I am an empty guitar case,
Sitting dejectedly at the feet
Of an unshaven busker,
Lid open and velvet interior
Begging for something to
Be placed inside it—except
I never wanted crumpled
Green bills or rusty coppers.
I wanted a well-loved guitar,
Filling me as if it were molded
To my shape. I wanted silent
Melodies humming under a
Closed cover—life that sings
Internally and is not meant  
For other’s entertainment.

I am made of melted steel,
Sitll holding the title
Of something malicious,
Piercing and lethal--
But in a state that is
Defenseless, harmless,
Unable to defend itself
When approached
With something other

Than words.

She was the villain.
She could feel it
In her heart—
Yet there was nothing,
Not a “sorry”
That could salvage
What she had done.
We are all heroes
And villains in
One and another’s
Lives—
but she still wished
she could be
     only the light

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

A sanctum of denial,
Concealing my faults--
A cushion of half-truths;
How many layers have
Amassed over the darkness
Underneath?
Countless years of internalizing,
Clasping the faults close,
Hands like golem and his ring
In my chest, shaking with
The anxiety I knew I shouldn’t
Keep—but cherished anyway,
Secret, mine, a way for me
To feel in control.
How long will I delay
The inevitable breakdown

That comes with realizing
All my most incarcerated,
Ebony-black thoughts
And parts of myself
Are with Him, and He
Only loves me
no matter
how dark
they are.

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.

My eyes were deep holes,
Boring 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

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.

I am Loved,
a truth that sometimes hurts,
I am Scared
something I loathe to admit
And I am Yours,
a fact that gives me strength
To say all these things

We climb up these steps,
on a constant spiral staircase,
Scampering along the branches
of this gnarled tree—
How many times,
have I fallen
And scraped my knee
along the way?
Why do i persist
On climbing, climbing,
climbing?

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?

Fields in Albany
May seem wrong
And inconcrete--
but so are my thoughts,
my sugared reality
With rows and rows
of half-bloomed daisies--
Some flicker out of reach
But with so many,
how can my eyes but deceive me?

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?

It was a sweet downpour,
Sprinkling on her nose
Like freckles. 


There was no one to watch,
No one to please,

Only Jesus.

The flowers lollygagged
And her skirt swished,
She laughed.

The sound flooded the wind,
Her palms facing up,
Nose crinkled.

She was a little girl again,
Yellow wellingtons in puddles,
Without a shadow.

It was a sweet downpour,
She spun and spun,
In nostalgia.

I am forever distant--
Like pollen once it
has left on the wind,
Isolated in a home
With little windows
and temporal silence.
I see no fault
in being vulnerable
And open, anymore--
But these guarders,
still cover my words.

The sheen of ice
On a frozen lake,
So much underneath,
yet never shown--
Because no feet
Dare to walk on it,
Or come close enough
to break its surface.

a jar of pennies,
sloshing around
and clinking—
it is poor
and rusting—
My mind, that is.