10 Word Poem
5/3/2015

Awake at 4am, you're in my head - away from bed.

All I've Got is Maybe, if I Ain't Got You Babe Poem
9/16/2014

Maybe you spend your Sunday afternoons with a smile.
Maybe you take an extra hour to get out of bed in the morning.
Maybe you brush your teeth and put your toothbrush back down into that 4-slotted holder that just seems to look more full with a 2nd brush.
Maybe you go grocery shop once every few weeks to buy romantic things like checkered tablecloths, fresh flowers, and scented candles.
Maybe you run out of **** and condoms more frequently now that you're with him.

Maybe you've forgotten what my laugh sounds like.
Maybe you don't agonize over what outfit to wear out on a Friday night because I'm not around to care anymore.
Maybe you no longer get poems written about you, not that you ever knew.
Maybe now there aren't consequences for forgetting to text back within 2 days to messages like, "how are you, wanna grab a bite to eat?"
Maybe you don't miss swimming around the pool at 3am talking reminiscing about each other's past we didn't get to be a part of.

Maybe you could have spent a week this winter sick in bed and had me bring you soup after I finished studying.  
I'd tell you I bought it with a coupon and that the old-fashioned restaurant owner asked again if you were my brother or cousin because he didn't want to think you were my lover,
and of course you would laugh and laugh then cough and sneeze.

Maybe by now you would have formed a permanent imprint in the left side of my king-size mattress,
and picked out your favorite 5 pillows of the 15, rarely used - they look so dormant in that vacant lonely left side of my bed,
as if it had a wormhole that made it access:
a cold, limitless blackhole in outerspace.  

Maybe you wouldn't have kept using,
and felt like you needed to move to New York to escape.  
Instead you could have fled into my eyes,
that they say are the portal to the soul,
and let them gaze into yours as you'd make a steady embark to intertwine.

Maybe I wouldn't feel the need to immerse myself in academic studies and drinking at bars to keep as busy as possible,
because the one moment I allow myself to watch a romantic movie on Netflix,
I know I'll need to eat sodium-laden Chinese food to help me retain water so that I don't cry myself to sleep over you.

Maybe I wouldn't have had to bear my **** soul in front of an audience of about 35 people,
sharing the tragic afterthought of you in poetry form.

Maybe by now I would have figured out that...
Maybe you don't think about what maybe you could have had,
if maybe I could have had you babe.

A poem isn't enough
1/13/2014

A poem doesn't quite do it right.
To tell someone how conflicted I feel.
How could it, when I don't even understand
myself,
or you,
or what you do,
to me,
to my heart,
can't you hear or see,
when we aren't wee,
I feel like just mee,
and that isn't enough.

It isn't enough.
A poem just can't do it,
not for you babe.
not for us,
and never for me, just me.

a poem i wrote briefly in homage to my legit airport creeper.
August 25, 2011

Face to face, definitely not a warm embrace.
Eyes on me, make me nervous enough to ***.

Creeper, Creeper.
Please don't follow me hoooome.
Creeper, Creeper.
Go stare at something of your ownnnn!

Totally forgot to post my new poem.
February 2, 2012

Friends

Do they ache?
Do they break?
Will they be there when you wake?
Can they be fake?
Could I make
one,
or maybe a ton?
Wouldn't that be so much fun?
Fun, fun.
I want some.
Who can I get it from?
Street ***.
Stranger's hum.
My feelings going numb.
um...
**** my thumb.
Like a baby.
Please, someone save me.
Whine, whine!
You are mine.
On these drugs,
tonight I'll dine.
Sublime.
But then turn on a dime.
Throw up.
Wish I'd just grow up.
Give up on this drug cup,
I mean cocktail.
My lungs fail.
I look so pale.
And this is the end of my sorry drug tale.

Are drugs good friends?

12/27/2013

I cried in the shower.
When nobody was around to see,
except me - looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
But it was enough to make me cry harder, cry louder,

cry softer, cry unseen and cry unheard.
Cry out of sight and cry out of mind and cry without saying a single word.
Cry for the fallen who can't get up.
Cry for the tortured whose lives have been messed up.
Cry for a family I've never heard of.
Cry for the homeless and poor who just needed a little bit more love.
Cry for my friend who recently contracted ***.
Cry for him, because I wish instead it had been me.

I sat up in bed after midnight, writing a diary entry it read,
"No happy greeting tonight."

I laid down in the empty bathtub with the shower running,
spraying hot water, only on to my side.
The rest of me, freezing cold, exposed.
I played a song in the background, called Wounded.

There were three separate streams running down my face:
water, shampoo, and are those Tears coming out of the shower faucet?

It seemed like a perfect scene for a tragic movie.
It definitely felt 'unreal' enough to be in one.
I was spitting a lot.
maybe because the bitterness of words trapped in my mouth contaminated my palate.

He might have ***, Highly Likely.
and I always viewed him as invulnerable.
We spoke on the phone and he pretended to be strong but I can sense feelings.
I guessed it after all.
Only we might know so far.
Tomorrow he finds out.
Don't worry about me.
No ****** involvement - I'm not lucky enough to get a guy like that.

I feel a fraction of his fear and pain though.
I've been an idiot and a bad friend.

So no happy greeting tonight diary.
Please excuse my sorrow and don't take pity.
No worries, I think those were just Tears coming out of the shower faucet.
Like the single Tear I wake up with each morning ever since I heard he got it.

Body Parts and Curse Words Symphony Poem
(7/5/2014)

So, you think I'm an *******?
Well then my farts must smell like roses,
because I treat you the sweetest anyone could dare to stomach.
You count mistakes I've made like calories,
forgetting you are a strangling esophagus,
coated in cholesterol and stuffed with lies.
You flex between smooth to striated as visibly as a zig-zag line,
but even as I try to pass you out of my sphincter like the **** you are,
you keep finding ways to come back up my throat like acid reflux.
But I, am an *******.

So, you think I'm a *******?
Well then you must be a kidney stone,
because you refuse to leave my life any less painfully,
than an unwanted calcium deposit in my urethra.
Nice to meet ya, now bye Felicia.
***** as they come,
you ***.
Because you like to torture me,
clutching that red beating thing in my chest,
with the fierceness of a ****** clamp.
But I, am a *******

So, you think I'm a *****?
Well then I am honored to be seen as so sensitive,
because you must be a  brutal ******* crammed into my face.
Which is funny,
because you'll have your face buried in me soon enough.
You exhaust your *****-eating arsenal,
including flicks of your wicked tongue and lips,
a tiny bite as an exercise of your might.
But I'm the one here who is in control.
So call me a raging thunder **** and make my day,
because you hide in ******* disguise,
now don't be scared little guy and stare into Momma Medusa's eyes.
But I, am a *****.

So, you think I have ***** eyes?
Well then maybe you give judgmental stares,
because you are faced with a ***** reflection in the mirror,
but don't blame the fragile glass surface.
The one with smudges and stains, until it shatters,
because these eyes are no simple *** object.
They are the most beautiful brown bestowed upon my body,
and they are filled with the anger,
filled with the rage,
and filled with the envy which accompanies sorrow.
***** eyes, **** eyes,
but gaze into these eyes that are relentlessly unforgiving, named Hazel.
as if they had a name for human pieces of flesh filled with blood.
But I, have ***** eyes.

You wave these body parts around so casually,
wielding them like words used to curse someone.
You scream that they are used to sell ***.
But my body parts are no curse words,
and my body parts are no mere objects.

They are woven together to create a breathtaking symphony.
They don't belong in a sarcophagus, still alive and breathing,
my heart is here and beating,
as much as that ******* may ****,
as much as that **** may ****,
as much as that ***** may throb,
and as much as those eyes may stare,
don't you dare ever go there.

Because while I may be a compilation of body parts and curse words,
you are just beef jerky, a food mindlessly consumed, and overly salty.

Bones for Breakfast
July 2014

Bones are like peanut brittle.
Gnawed on til toothless,
by us old mangy mutts.
Tastes sweet tender as a drop 'o dew,
Feels soft in a bride's whisper, "I do."
But speaks crunchy crackles of Tic-Tac language,
instead of ******* out bad breath breathe shards in.

Although bones may break,
become buried under archaeologists' noses,
slip through crevices cracked and crumbled.
They were once anything but brittle,
covered only by skin yet to be bruised,
backs yet to be battered,
blood yet to be spilled,
faces yet to witness the history yet to be written.

I do not believe we are supposed to eat bones,
but we break them down into shreds of paper-back tidbits,
consumable by children during the snack time called 'history class.'
Our teachers are creating cannibals,
consuming culture on textbook platters,
but pay no mind while wearing bone bibs,
they leave out the thickest cuts of meat and just eat the ribs.

History is a living thing, dressed to deceive those who blindly believe.
I remember reading George Washington's claim to fame,
"I did not chop down that cherry tree."
But Mr. President, what about your enemies?
Because every revolution needs people to die for the revolutionaries.
Ain't that a sweet piece of cherry lie pie?

I learned Genghis Khan sure got it on with many women,
but didn't read about Alexander the Great's great ***,
much of it involving a same-gendered mate.
Wait, was that a mixture of patriarchy and hetero-normativity?
Words that weren't worth the pennies to print?
Who hired these fact checkers for the publishing industries?
I'll give you a hint,
Learn who has the most to gain from condemning intellectual content and corrupting it with a corrosive lack of social conscience.
As textbook reps tell professors, "Buy our books with cute new features."  But since when was that what made good teachers?
And so, these chapters get served to us on poo poo platters,
passed off to be refreshing as fresh mint pours in for corporations like Pearson Education.

I surveyed the lay of the land in Egypt,
purveying the literature of pharaohs.
Pyramids meant to portray a portrait of powerful people,
not a foolish riddle.
"Who built them," we ask.
But not of curiosity for whose backs broke building.
Its whose bones mummified beneath are made into mythological creatures along with Sphinx features.

I was taught the Holocaust was a unique horror story,
along with the catch phrase "never again."
Yet those 600 pages neglected to educate about the "re-education campaign" against the Cambodians.
Where was I to learn of the Rwanda civilization's tensions and exterminations?
Perhaps those pages were buried in the mass graves and dirt ditches, deserted and desecrated like the indigenous individuals we now call Native Americans.

Tell me more about art again.
It conveys a message about the historical humans experience,
but I think that message got lost sometime in the Renaissance Period.
When men had beards and wore colorful clothing,
but now that is either unprofessional or deemed gay as a bad thing.
When women were depicted full-bodied as that meant social status,
but now they are painted in photo shop with air brushes and slimmed slick.
We've created a glorious new empire of gastrointestinal bypass Groupons, and have either **** out or surgically removed all the bones we swallowed to get here... So, who's ready for lunch?

Building Blocks (Spoken Word Poem)
5/15/2014

I played with legos when I was young.
What I didn't know was the value of those building blocks.
Putting tiny pieces of plastic together,
all different shapes, sizes, and colors.

For what?
For fun?
For structure?
For a challenge?
Because my mom told me to keep busy?
Or because that was how legos were supposed to work - together.

As I grew up, I gradually upgraded.
My legos got traded in for classmates,
for co-workers.
for bar buddies,
and even for the occasional stranger at the mall or movie theater.

They started telling their own stories:
About their first day at lego high school and making new friends.
About falling in love with their first lego boyfriend.
About going to lego prom and putting the pieces together at the after-party, if you know what I mean.
About getting dumped, but then landing their first job at the lego factory.
About shedding priceless limited edition lego tears, on stressful days.
About going through struggles where all they could do is pray to lego God.
About dreams of a nice big lego house with lego children someday.
About lego suicides, resulting from bullying in every worst kind of way.

Eventually it felt like I had opened up an expert level pack,
containing a variety so vast that I never would have guessed anybody could piece them all together.

These building blocks started to feel pretty heavy,
like bricks building a house,
I could only carry a couple in a fistful at a time.
Except they've been worn down from a life full of misuse.
Their colors faded,
edges jaded,
teeth serrated,
like an adapted mechanism for survival.
And what's worse - no mortar to piece them together.
because it all got burnt up.
A casualty of angry tempers' crossfire.
The constant collisions of verbal bullets bullying the building blocks,
bulldozing them over.
With the strength of slurs,
societies seems to blur,
all the inadequacies faced.

Without solidarity to support,
these building blocks are beginning to contemplate giving up.
But Stop!
But I don't like that.
I'll shout, "Hey little legos, remember the plan?
We should work together with your manual instructions in hand.
You were built with a scheme to be put together.
So in unison you can create an amazing structure to cherish forever."

Building blocks are resilient anyways.
Remember that time you left a lego alone?
Detached from its peers,
abandoned out on the carpet,
without the safety of its pre-fab box home?
Well the lego didn't seem to mind, I mean it turned out just fine.

Remember when you stepped on that seemingly small, insignificant lego?
Yeah, don't step on legos.
I'm sure you remember how much that ******* hurt your foot.

City Lights SLAM POETRY
1/21/2014

Look momma,
out the airplane window.
There's city lights,
they're pretty,
but what they really mean you wouldn't know.
Las Vegas, ain't it beautiful though.

But oh, you see,
the city captures me
and keeps me held up at night
lacking fright
as the city sees my drunken might.

Because sometimes I get a little lonely,
and sometimes I wander.
But most times it's irrelevant,
I'm just the big purple elephant,
in the room,
that nobody wants you to see.
Because that side of me,
is in you just as much as in me.

Just wonder, have a little wander,
View tomorrow fonder,
maybe we'll strike thunder,
or settle for down under,
the ****** dancer,
make your moves romancer.
Tell me it's the season,
but you don't need a reason,
to put your body out there,
feel the warmth of cold stares.

You see it's these city lights,
they keep me trapped in the night
of Las Vegas,
And I know it sounds heinous,
but please could you come save us
from the city lights,
before they eat us tonight.

So maybe
we could go somewhere
Save our money
get the hell outta here.
Instead we stare
into those city lights,
oh so pretty.
Oh so mesmorizing,
oh so ******* gorgeous.

He'll take your wallet,
pick your pocket,
kick your door in,
though you locked it,
take your money,
you're in need
not just of some
but of everything
that's not in Las Vegas,
but we're not that shameless, are we?

Sometimes we do things,
we don't want the world to know,
Sometimes I think,
I'm my own private show,
with the freak side attraction,
maybe get reaction
split a fraction to know
that one *** and another ***
don't make a rake
just a couple flakes
that fall down
that fall down
that fall down
and break,

under these city lights
I don't think we can make
it out of here alive.
We just crumble,
and slip through the cracks,
as we try to survive,
can't work a 9 to 5,
because we're lazy
and we do drugs
and we hate stuff
and we have ***
and we **** up
my life
ain't it nice
to live in Las Vegas
and see the city lights?
as they keep me trapped in the night?

Until I die,
Nothing leaves Las Vegas huh?
Have any of you seen the movie Leaving Las Vegas?
You should because it's famous,
not just because Nick Cage is,
but because his character was nameless,
or might as well been,
could you tell me
more than just his story?
Of a washed up, pathetic alchie and a *******?
His name was Ben Sanderson,
but that's not the point you're still missing.
His character was based on a real person,
At first I thought his name was John O'Brien,
the writer of the novel,
who shot himself.
But we dig a little deeper,
and find this message steeper
than we had imagined,
the real victim's been hidden,
in plain sight,
under these city lights.

*******, druggie, you don't know what I see,
on that airplane,
through the window
there's just something
that don't show,
but it's in the spotlight
of these city lights,
it's those people,
dying while still alive,
alcohol in their arteries,
could be you
and could be me,
trapped in the night,
by these city lights,
but you'd never know,
because what happens in Vegas,
stays in Vegas,
but they don't tell you why,
it's these city lights that keep us alive.
We need them to struggle to survive.

Clumsy Gazelle Poem
10/??/2015

Dear Dad,

The last time we spoke, was spent walking down the sidewalk together in some metropolitan area.  There was a tunnel up above, I guess we were in what you would call an underpass and a giant graffiti'd dumpster was awaiting our passage.  You pulled on my arm with strong resolve and guided me into the street, as if the cars would dissolve in front of us as we inched farther away with our feet.  I felt like a modern day Moses, it was magical.  Once we reached the other side of the Chevrolet sea, you pointed out to me that our sudden death match with the traffic was a tactical maneuver.  There was a gang operation being run no sooner than just beyond the trash bin... I woke up from that dream and immediately knew what could have happened.

I took a trip to Chicago this summer, the first of its kind.  I felt like you were watching over me, keeping me safe the entire time.

I can't recall too many words you've said to me, but I have quite a few for you.  Like to start, here's two.  I'm gay.  I wonder all the time, if maybe you already knew.  You always called me by the nickname Cool.  You told my mom that when I grow up I would be a ******* and a big drinker too.  You got one-and-a-half of those right.  

I inherited your hair and your goofy smile too.  Neither of those are all that great, but I guess they'll have to do.  I've heard the story from your poker pals about the time you won at pool.  You got up on the table and in your most graceful pose and poise, the pool stick struck, and as the 8 ball sunk, gravity grabbed and you fell.  Once you stood up, you addressed the **** up and said, "Like a gazelle."    

I've made my own leaps too, but every gazelle has its gaffes.  I've fallen in front of friends but made it out of every situation's extremes. It seems that when gravity pulls me down, all I can do is laugh. I'm glad I got that from you - I'd rather be a 'clumsy gazelle' than a 'graceful giraffe.'

Condolence Cards Poem (Spoken Word)
5/19/2014

Congratulations: On landing your dream job!
Congratulations: On buying your first house!
Congratulations: It's a beautiful baby you brought into this world!
Congratulations: Marriage is so monumental, see you at the wedding!
Condolences.

Can you measure the amount of acknowledgements we forfeit,
to cheap card stock and cheesy colorful cutouts?  
Like each event in life is a round in sports,
requiring an announcer to stand on the edge of the arena,
shouting the play by play.  

We play pretend that cards can say what we feel.  
But I feel like unless if those purple, blue, vanilla,
or pink for valentine's and mother's day envelopes
can enclose an entire paperback novel,
I know that my feelings can't possibly be enclosed inside.  
As if feelings could surmount to anything less than a lifetime of experience.  

For when has then phrase, "I love you" ever conveyed the entire message intended, but without the soft gestures accompanying it, or perhaps the longing gaze of eyes and 'I Do's' entrenched in one another.  
For when has the phrase, "I miss you" offered up the subtleties of staring out your window on rainy day, listening to piano symphonies sinking into the sofa sipping away sorrows on wine?
For when has the phrase, "I am sorry for your loss" ever actually meant sorry, as if it was you who were the perpetrator of a ****** and were seeking exoneration through a sorry excuse of a phrase uttered by people who just don't quite understand the meaning of the term 'sorry.'
Condolences.

I stare at the Hallmark Sea in front of me and I wonder.  Are life's memorable moments so easily categorized?  Into baby showers, bar-mitzvahs, and birthdays?
What about cards just for barbecues with random neighbors?
About cards just for breaking your precious vase?
Cards just for being a ***** the other day?
Just for breakfast you made me in bed?
For binge-ing on alcohol with me and not leaving me almost dead?
What about cards just for thanking you for buying me a stupid ******* card?

Tell me where is the corporate branding on cards for being broke?
On cards for broken homes?
On cards for being homeless?
On cards for getting cancer?
On cards for cutting?
On cards for self-loathing and depreciation?
What about cards for being in the moment or sharing a cup of coffee?
Instead what we get is the catch-all, Condolence Cards.

Condolences - an expression of sympathy with a person who is suffering sorrow, misfortune, or grief.  
Condolences - an expression of sympathy with a person who is suffering sorrow, misfortune, or grief.  
Condolences - an expression of sympathy
Condolences - a person who is suffering
Condolences - sorrow, misfortune, or grief.  


I didn't realize most people's sympathy being expressed equated to blank stares like paper on paper, means nothing but thin and flimsy papers, feelings forfeited, grounded up like big beautiful trees teeming with life, chalked up into tiny pieces of toilet paper for you to wipe your crap on, leaving behind a Hallmark - Condolence Card.

Cotton Candy Man Poem
(6/7/2014)

He was simple sugar,
spun on hot air,
soaked in pink,
a tasty treat.
He was cotton candy.

I would wrap him around my finger,
like I could coax a ring out of sugar and thin air.
To have felt him melt in my mouth,
each time the tip of my tongue got a taste.
He was cotton candy.

He was a carnival with all the best attractions.
but balloon darts pop when you pour enough money into the game.
but a dunk tank is just a plunge into shallow depths, a break from the sun.
but elephants should be free, not tamed by fire and humans' greedy desire.
but a clown without their makeup might as well be a less creepy comedian.
but won over stuffed animals are just like cotton candy,
a squishy substance when you need a stable solid.

Step right up!
Spotlight on the star of our circus show,
see the cotton candy man.
His heart made of sugar,
a toxic substance.
His breath's brevity enough to set off cotton candy's chemical reaction,
scorching hot air against pink paint,
there is nothing sweet about being spun.

Dyed in bright colors to deliver a warped reality,
he was seemingly a healthy vibrant,
unlike the poison within.

He was cotton candy,
and I, a circus ******,
craving him, freshly spun.

Cyber Bullying Poem
2/6/2014

Let's talk about cyber bullying.
I wonder if you instantly thought,
"Oh gosh this is gonna be intense."
Well maybe, maybe not.

Some forms of bullying aren't intended to be intense.

Sometimes bullying comes from the smallest things you can do to someone.
Sometimes bullying just takes a minute to type and press send.
Sometimes bullying just takes another minute to close your web browser.
Sometimes bullying just takes a third minute to walk away fine.

Bullying is possible in just three minutes:
send a comment to anyone anywhere in the world
ruin their day.
destroy their confidence
personally insult someone you don't know personally
influence their minute, hour, day, week, month,
life, suicide.

But this poem isn't about suicide,
it isn't about life or death.
It is about those small things you say to someone on the internet,
without ever realizing
you are a cyber-bully.

This poem is about the time I met an internet troll.
Someone who says things in chat forums to elicit an elevated response.
I was in middle school, one of three Jewish kids.
I posted on a forum about video games,
and for some reason
another middle schooler on the same forum as me,
somewhere unknown in the world,
posted off topic about how the Holocaust was great for population control.
*******.

This poem is about the messages you get on your dating profile,
that just say "hello" or "hi."
Because you took the time to fill out and divulge personal information,
and the best they could come up with was a measly greeting?
26 letters, 10 numbers, and 46 other keys at your disposal,
with unlimited time
no pressure at all,
but you'll use a hell of a lot more keys when you retaliate to my angry response.
*******.

This poem is about the debates you get into on FB.
someone posts a provocative status about cultural misappropriation
or about how English should be the national language,
and you respond unable to resist,
trying to keep it professional and scholarly,
citing sources doing your thing,
until they make a personal insult,
unrelated to the debate topic,
maybe about your political orientation or religious beliefs.
*******.

This poem is about the person who you were supposed to go on a date with,
but they told you about how they once got upset at their ex,
and posted their photos on Craigslist.
******* and no thank you!

This poem is about the poems that I've posted on my blog,
that someone out there thinks are open to public criticism,
as all art should be they said.
Maybe if I was published and making money, sure?
Maybe if I actually thought your opinion was valuable?
Or maybe, just maybe, you could be a cyber bully.
Spewing your **** like the internet is your personal toilet seat.
*******.

This poem is about the minutiae,
the minutes in which someone can damage you,
because your screen on your computer has no filter,
it won't protect you from the cyber bullies,
who say small comments that make a big impact.

No happy inspirational ending,
other than that I hope they read this poem on the internet,
and maybe feel a little bullied themselves.

Death is not pleasant.
February 4, 2012

I bear a pain so deep.
It creates a hole in my chest.
Teary eyed, I can't sleep, can't rest.
These feelings so steep.
I can't help but digress.
This is stuck with me,
for the rest.
of my life.

A death, a painful memory.
Oh, how you were so close to me.
Even though I'm not there,
I feel like I'm watching you walk away from me.
Slip out of my grasp.
My voice is growing rasp.
I can't talk, can't breath, can't eat, can't feel.
Anything but my heart ache and my layers of strength peel.

I haven't felt this hurt in a very long time.
Watching your condition climb.
From better to worse,
up and down we go.
Something I couldn't know.
Is how much it would hurt to watch you go.
So.

How do I move on?
How can I let this be a phase?
Something to move past,
Just a temporary daze.

I just can't stand this pain,
even though I knew it all along.
This is not a happy song.
But a reminder of the good times gone.
Oh, how I long.
For your sweet embrace.
Your pleasant stories' tastes.
Life feels like such a waste.

To be given to the young,
Yet flung,
far away from the deserving ones.
Death's battle has been won.
You're just another one.
A casualty, to feelings so salty.
My tears pour and run like the sea.

How can I continue to be me?
When you were such a part of me.
It's like I am a tree.
With its roots sawed off.
Dying with a nervous cough.

It's enough to see you wither.
It's enough to see life waste.
It's enough to know there's no tomorrow,
for you, or your warm embrace.
I just can't stand to let you go.
Or even to know.
I'm so sorry to see you go.

I love you,
and I want you to know.
That I'll never forget you.
Even when I'm old.
And it's my turn to be told.
That it's time to go,
not allowed to say "No."

Depths of Death Found in Drowning
September 21, 2013

Night will fall,
and the darkness of it all,
will wash my woes away a woah-oh.

The reckoning of wreck has been beckoning to be bet.
Find the ship that is destined to fail,
it set sail, on a demised trail.

When alone at night,
found lost without sight,
count the stars, for they are numbered.
They speak of one's destiny,
to meet morning slumbered.

It's been heard before,
the shark's shrill thrill,
yet still,
plunge into the depths of death.
A shrinking, sinking, step,
leading to a sleep deeper than can be dreamt.

Sweeping struggle,
breathing in bursts of bubbles,
drowning in what should be water.
But who would will,
that power to ****,
to what is in nature,
able to sit so still and serene?

See the scene,
picturesque - not obscene,
with a shiny gleam on the surface.
What does it mean?
To hold beauty never seen,
unless drowned in the dark of night fall.

Tell me,
What does it mean?
To find the meaning of beauty,
in the death of it all?

Destroy
January 26, 2012  

I been swaggin’ while the haters keep raggin’.
But they goin’ nowhere, pants saggin’.
I knock ‘em down one by one, black baggin’.
I ain’t got time to join ‘em, I just run ‘em over with my wagon.

But look, now by the time that I’m through,
Its like there’s been a demolishing crew
If you think you can cross me.
Yeah if you try to come hurt me.
I’ll take every single dollar, and every last cent.
I’ll **** up your ****, I don’t show mercy, no repent.

I will rise to the top,
Hell no, I won’t stop.
Haters just wanna see me flop.
‘cuz every big mess needs a mop.

I’ll take my seat on the throne.
Have a  sip, good patron.
Spend a moment, clean up my spill.
****, now I’ve got some time to ****.

Directions?
October 1, 2012

My life as an unfinished portrait.
I trace lines through the veins of my brain.
Place down these paper thoughts.
Distinguish between what I teach myself and have been taught.

Let me get this straight.
I can only be one person?
Get a single choice of the careers I'm searching.
Only to make it under the burden of weight.

Each step closer, closer, is saying no to no longer options
I feel this is a mean means to an end.
Need to follow the signs, but of which signals I send?
Leaves me tying corners together, assimilating assumptions.

Put on a pair of glasses to spectate.
I sit in the hot seat until I matriculate.

Earthquake Poem
3/5/2014

What do you suppose an earthquake does?

Sure, there are the shakes and scares,
Seismic shifts accompanied by tectonic tears.
But ditch this global perspective,
Figure out what rips those ripples, detective.

Let’s see you pound at the ground.
Hit it hard, ‘til you hear a heavy sound.
Is that enough to fissure some asphalt?
Tell me, could you bring this spinning planet to a sudden halt?

I can’t say for sure, what an Earth-quake does.
Though I’ve been a victim,
Earth isn’t where my quake was.
An Earth-less earthquake,
On a planet whose name I’ve learned to forsake.

Wynn’s world wandered ‘round someone else’s orbit:
Drawn to its gravity like grapes grow on a vine;
Brightened by its solar system’s shining smile, so divine;
Emotional tides tugged in and out;
Guided by its mysterious moon’s midnight meandering about.

That’s right – an orbit with its own time flow.
Time that could stomp its heels and steal a spotlight,
Time that could manipulate a moment like jello, mayonnaise, or some other squishy substance,
Time that could crash course, while standing still,
Time that could reveal something you never knew.

What do you suppose an earthquake does?

A quake could be anything that makes you shake.
Think of quaking in fear, as an unknown figure draws near.
Think of a jittery heart, that’s been bit by a bullet.
Internal tears,
think of organs bleeding,
Think of needing,
solid ground,
but falling and time keeps stalling.

When a quiet little quiver promises to deliver,
its slight shock signal straight through the middle.
When a molten magma core fizzes its manic madness,
like a shaken soda.
When an epic eruption carries out its upward excelsior,
Rejecting the spinning without a stop.

Oh, the mountains will tumble,
The hills and valleys, they’ll crumble,
And gurgle in the raging rivers’ rumble,
As volcanoes churn out violent bubbles,
Stirring up all kinds of troubles,
For one person’s personal planet.

For one person’s personal planet,
These violent forces of nature can’t compare to an Earth-quake,
When the ground you stand on begins to break,
When you realize your senseless stability is fake.
When that little quake knocks your Earth awake,
It’s reality coming alive to take, and take, and take,
Because for love, you put everything at stake.

What do you suppose an earthquake does?
I’ll tell you – it leaves a wrecked world with a cracked core and scorched surroundings.
Just because.
Just because, love on Earth always comes with a quiet little quake.

Fearing Changes Poem
5/3/2014

I want a divorce from my feelings.
Lately I've been thinking,
about changing,
about becoming,
someone really bright,
burning full of wonder and life,
amazed by the world.

I don't want to grow into jaded angst,
taking life's anger inducing tragic bait.

I need to shower myself in streams of light,
bringing in a brightness that stirs crazy,
ushering in  a fierce ***** that can't be tamed.

I need to plunge headfirst into a fist full of firsts,
breaking through boundaries yet to be crossed,
ultimately setting the stage for my future in a neat new place.

It's these changes that I fear.
It's these changes that I think will become me.
It's these changes that I don't want to absorb me,
and take away my favorite pieces of person-hood.

Fears for Forever Poem
5/19/2015

What could happen if we lost our fears and let love in?

It would just take a moment to gaze into your eyes
and know I'd have a place to rest my own as long as you look back.

It would just take a second to stare and know how deep
our feelings could impair our thoughts or any logic,
thinking this could turn out so bad, but right now hearts pumping,
blood running through our veins,
my thoughts become overcome by feelings,
and I think I've turned a little insane.

It would just take a minute to comprehend
but it would be 59 too late.
Because from the first count poison is consumed,
you've become another victim.
You've gone from new to used.

It would just take an hour to kindle our spark
into a full force inferno.
Temperature hot enough to set this bed on fire
and combustion would blow up the whole **** building.
But not before we both explode together.

I couldn't imagine what harm letting love in for 24 hours would do.
but now that I know, I'd do it, I'd do, I'd do it all night with you.
Let love in, shut the blinds, and seal the door, locked airtight.
I'd let our love destroy everything in sight.
Tell myself everything will be alright,
if I'd just have you to hold me through this tragic plight.

... I guess this is why fears exist
to keep love out of mind, out of life.
Something to be scared of,
sometimes so wrong, it should be left when you take a right
step in the opposite direction.

So turn and face the fears and feel afraid.
Don't you know what would happen if you allowed yourself to stay?
if you let love in, even just for a moment?

Then walk away and say,
goodbye my... almost lover.

Feelings Travel Poem
3/15/2014

flying creatures
end up crawling in your sneakers
when they lose their will to fly
traverse among the clouds over continents
but those that swim are worse.

swimming creatures
they'll weave through your dreams
leave an island to be lost at sea
thinking you can't see
what's under the murky emotional water.

walking creatures
take their time on the gravel and grass
surprisingly harder to find
like little fuzzy things,
granule grains engrained in my eye sockets.
small enough you can fit a million of 'em in your pockets,
ready to reveal whenever.

What do the flying creatures, walking, or swimming
all have in common with me?
That they carry their feelings inside tiny hearts beating
and their feelings travel all the same.

sometimes feelings fly,
sometimes they swim,
sometimes they lose their will to walk and crawl.

Hear this creatures.
no matter if you're feeling so small,
trapped in between life's walls,
or feeling nothing at all,
those feelings you'll carry at all - times,
Because feelings travel.

Flavors of Love Please Poem
2/26/2014

I don't want to live in a world without love.

Without cheap dates.
Without wallowing and wine,
wondering where things went wrong.

Without melodrama,
Without attempts to understand,
why we get hurt when we open ourselves up.

Maybe to others,
a world without love
would be alright.

Maybe to others,
they don't need those special feelings,
to be feeling just fine.

But not me, no no.
I need to live in a world with love,
a world with laughter and a world with light.

A world that doesn't forget to include the things,
that aren't quite so nice,
like someone turning away from you,
but you know their ****** expression anyways,
cold as ice.

A world that is harsh and tormenting,
where you can easily retrace the footsteps,
that once held two pairs of feet,
or you can retreat,
but would much rather follow.

I demand to see the stars disappear into sunlight,
trying to decide which option is the better kind of shine bright.
A bold blazing sun, easy to spot in the sky,
or the millions of stars that look like they are struggling to fly.

And I,
don't want to give up on love anymore.
I just needed some time to press my heart's snooze button,
and snore away the hurt.

But now,
I am wide awake and hear my heart's drum beating,
it calls to me at night,
pleading for something it is needing.

The sizzle of eggs I cooked in a pan for breakfast,
with little flecks of salt and pepper,
a slice of butter on some whole-wheat toasted bread.

Together, this breakfast conglomeration,
told me what the point of this poem is.
To live on, without love, is to eat boring eggs.

And I,
would rather live a life filled with hate,
then be stuck eating what is served to me on a plate.

Give me all the flavors of love please.

Frozen Heart Poem
10/22/2015

What's a winter without withering?
What's a winter without solitude?
What's a winter without higher gas bills to heat the apartment,
because without you in bed I lost my natural heater?
What's a winter without a frozen heart?

Grow Old Poem (Spoken Word)
5/15/2014

I want my heart to drop at least one more time before I die.
If it can tingle with that sensational micro shock wave,
feel it pulse fast through arteries and veins,
pumping ever so slowly, yet surely,
I can know that I am living in my last moments of being alive.

The thought never struck me that I could someday die of old age.
When the world out there is as scary as ours was,
one learns to not be afraid of what the future brings,
but instead of what's beyond the window in the present.
What malice is awaiting your dim-witted arrival out the door this morning?

Aging is the reason a Hell doesn't need to exist.
It can make a common theme among all of Dante's burning infernos.
How cruel is it to find things you love and ignite passions,
only to watch those things flicked off like fleas,
faltering into willowy whisps,
small pathetic pitter pats fluttering away into dust.

I did it right though, you know.
Growing old.
I did it by growing, after all, and not shrinking.
Step by step, things got harder, but in turn became more enjoyable.
My only wish now is to ask my 22 year old self some questions.

Why didn't you go to senior year prom?
Even though you didn't have a date, it would have been fun,
you and I both know it!

Why did you spend so much time obsessing over when you would lose your virginity when there were so many better firsts to be taken?

Why did you refuse to date for long periods of time,
closing off your heart as if falling in and out of love was like a fatal fall off a cliff.

Why did you care about little old me,
trying to make plans for the future, without realizing I could care for myself when it got to that point?

Why did you lie at your high school reunion as if anyone's opinion mattered if it wasn't something positive or interesting?

Why didn't you take better care of your body.
I know it's a low blow, but I'm not exactly a fan of my brittle skin, a little lotion daily could have gone a long way.

It's funny that these are the things I think of today.
That I remember out of all the moments, these few.
Why are you listening to me talk and answering these silly questions?

Go forth into the hustle and bustle of life,
Be enthralled in its tendrils,
letting its life force seep through your veins like a brilliant canal system.
Don't shrink as you age,
My advice to you is to Grow Old.

Haunted Poem
11/10/2014

Sometimes you feel haunted by the past,
and sometimes you feel haunted by the present.
... Neither are very easy to escape.

Hmm
August 15, 2012

How does one co-exist?
With peers or like-minded individuals?
These relationships can be examined and statements regarding be made.
However, co-existing with one's own entity is another story.

Even in a stable environment, emotions will unavoidably be unstable.
So, how do you pull yourself, and your goals, apart from the seemingly trivial?
Those limited instances, which many claim comprise you,
also may not define you, or perhaps not properly, or entirely...
giving off to others, the wrong interpretation of who you are; a second, potentially fake version of you
The emotional side, which only appears in limited instances, due to certain events.

So, in an all-encompassing scope, which piece of your puzzle are your emotions?
Are they interchangeable, do they cause other pieces to be created, or do they stem from an original root?
Your true identity deep down inside is amendable, due to this other you - the emotional side.
Now tell me, how do you co-exist with yourself?

How Does Happiness Happen Poem
11/25/2018

I once heard that happiness is like watching the sunrise.
That when its golden shining rays meet your eyes, their solar power can bring the darkness its demise, by summoning a radiant, dazzling smile--that's how I thought happiness happens for a while.

Someone else said that happiness just takes some time, while living in the present. That its like you wake up one day and suddenly things seem more pleasant. In other words, it should feel like the cut scene of a Disney movie--but my movie writers must have missed the memo.

I've also been told that happiness is a habit. That you tell yourself kind things in the mirror, and then they'll stick to you like a jacket you wear covered in positive patches made of hearts and unicorns and stuff--although my jacket never seemed to keep me warm enough.

Some say that happiness is letting go of the what if's and why not's, the whose its', what's its, and the what nots.
That it's the power to accept what you cannot change.
They all say that happiness starts within, but what if happiness is not in me? What if my body doesn't know how to make happiness happen?

Because I've been through sleepless nights to watch the sunrise, but its shining rays must have stopped before they hit my heart. Instead of a super smile, all I could muster was a lukewarm shoulder shrug and tired yawn and thought to myself, "Well, I guess that's all," as I watched the sunrise, and felt my hopes fall.

I've tried living in the present. I've patiently waited and wished to wake up one morning and be over this. I know they said that happiness just takes a while, but it's taken so long that now it's the ******* future and I've stopped believing in that fool's rumor.

How many mornings have I spent saying sappy affirmations in the mirror? Telling myself, "You are smart," "You are kind," "You are fine, fresh, and fierce," "You will be happy someday." By now, those words I once wore like a jacket have outgrown me and they no longer fit.

Maybe my soul is like a sapless flower, a ship that sinks, or a staring contest filled with blinks... ****, that stinks.
Maybe my brain chemicals have leaked, or my allotted amount of happiness has already peaked.
Maybe my stress and anxiety disagree with me being happy.
Maybe my happiness frosted, the first time I fell in love and lost it.

Even after all these things I've seen and done, I can't comprehend why my happiness is still long foregone.
My smile's corrosion has continued unspoken -- so I've issued a new one with permanent pen.
But I couldn't concoct a formula for the happiness potion -- one that would raise my happiness quotient.
I haven't unfrozen my heart out of fear that it's broken -- and thawing it out will release the emotions.


But I do know one thing that's true -- it's for certain.
If my happiness is broken, then by the principles of inversion, it can be rewoven.

There is no guarantee that it will come promptly,
but until then, I'll keep my pursuit in motion,
and continue to believe in the notion
that someday happiness will just happen to happen to me.

If Planets were Gay (Star ******) Poem
(8/4/2014)

Stars are ****.
Big hairless ***** dangling from the sky.
That old song sang stars are like pizza pie,
but why oh why can't I,
instead dine tonight on orbs in between the sky's mighty thighs?

The sun could be a lot of fun at the beach, wearing my thong.
I'd let it spin around my orbit ALL YEAR LONG.

And Saturn's rim... I mean ring
is a bootylicious thing.
I'd let it sit on my face,
and eat out that planet's entire outer space.

If Pluto were a planet,
It'd be the Jackson to my Janet,
singing it's Pluto,
Miss Pluto if ya nasty.

Mercury looked fiery hot when we first met,
Things got steamy 'cuz we both got wet.
We wasted no time working up a sweat.

I bet if Venus had a *****,
it would be so big,
it'd have its own solar system!
tee hee hee

But don't get me started with Earth,
that planet's got good girth.
If Earth was gay, you know that Uranus would be like,
"Ohayyy!!
Gurl Galactic Grindr tells me you're in my galaxy,
let's meet in the middle of the Milky Way."

Jupiter is the kinda planet that plays hard to get,
a total tease you'd quickly forget.
Plus he gave me asteroids in my astral ****.

And the Moon?
It makes my whole body swoon.
The only problem,
thisssss planet's a bottommmmm!

Neptune is in the closet,
but let's be real,
every planet and their comet knows it.

Nobody plays with Mars,
because he lives too far,
and has no apartment, job, or car.

But who am I kidding?
If Planets were Gay,
I'd Star **** 'em all any day.

12/30/2013
I Met the **** Hater

Have you ever seen someone so beautiful
that you felt like crying?
Have you ever felt so utterly Disgusted by someone
that you wished they were dying?

Do you think I feel gay guts and gayness in my genes?
Or did society manufacture me - one of their gay liberal machines.
I'm not sure which is better,
Either  way you'll make me a martyr.
But I'll be your Hester Prynne baby
with my Big Gay Letter.

I cannot erase
that look on his face.
when he told me **** ****, Go Away.
I'll punch you in the face just for being Gay.

A separation of message and mind.
Hateful judgment is not hard to find.
When I stand in the shower,
or sit down on a park bench,
I'm a **** to him clear as gay.
It's like he thinks I ate some magic flower.
My girlfriends don't fare much better - to him called a bar *****.
This guy is the part of society that makes being gay scary to say.

He thinks Gays making out in public can't be allowed.
He thinks Legalized gay marriages should be disavowed.
He thinks Animal ***, *******, and ****** are because of gays.
He thinks Gay **** between two women might be more okay.
He thinks *** should **** more gay people.
He thinks Criminalizing ****** would make things more equal.
He thinks Adam's choice of Eve or Steve is all that matters.
He doesn't care about myself, or your heart's fragile rathers.

This man is the **** Hater.
Not a rare breed at all.
He could be your waiter,
or your teacher,
maybe even your sales assistant at the mall.

I Met the **** Hater,
while I made out with a guy at the bar.
The **** Hater was kinda old, yet strong and tall.
But I didn't fall
down.
or become dehumanized.
When I caught a glimpse of his face
and saw that utter look of Disgust
that I just cannot erase.
I saw it in his face - the **** Hater's
'**** Hate.'

Interpreting Dreams Series Part 1
1/15/2014

I've got this idea
that the world has too many feelings.
Too many smiles that have turned upside down.
Too many tears that have gone unnoticed.

This couple sits at a table with a pretty white cloth.
Glasses of fancy carbonated water, bubbly like their first date.
But now, they hate each other.
They sit and complain about everyone in their lives.
and on their minds, they just hate their selves, not even each other.
They look at others with a scathing jealousy.

One guy takes a nap
He finds an electric taser in his dreams
He uses it to shock himself back awake, but then
he realizes he didn't want this moment to ever end.
Where dreams are reality and you don't have to suffer fraught with what's not.

She puts on her pearls
and then walks out the door.
She knows how she got them,
lies to herself, doesn't want to feel like a *****.
But still, she wants more.

There's something special about being the only one standing in a crowd.
Whether you're up on stage or in the middle of a pit.
You feel this sense that the moment is great
but it isn't amazing without another person to stand beside you.

They cried at a bus stop,
a family knowing
they had no money to celebrate holidays this year.
They don't need to, but it's the feelings that matter.
They cried.

We never know what we will find, when we look for something.
Our feelings are dangerous if we go looking for them and end up lost.

I Want to Hold Your Hand Poem
(6/16/2014)

I heard holding hands is what gives an angel its wings.
Maybe because they want to hold on so tightly,
that they need some help flying away.
They know they must go,
but don't know how to say no.
So does that explain why after we held hands the first time,
you disappeared?

Maybe you wanted to hold on.
Maybe you went to heaven,
because you didn't want the stars to see you cry.
So high above those celestial bodies you could do as you'd please,
and watch over me.

Maybe you felt...
the time, just might...
Maybe you were attracted to some other person's light,
Or maybe you were actually a devil in disguise.

One that rips wings off of angels
and traps them on Earth.
Watching with your hideous eyes,
as they hold hands with humans,
trying their hardest to fly.
While you feed off the fleeting might,
that causes their unstable plight.

Maybe you were a snake charmer,
and I, the instrument you played.
Like you could convince the sneaky shadow inside of me,
to slither out into the surface,
and convey its venomous intent,
ready to strike.
That's how you taught me to hold hands.

Maybe you were a tornado.
One that hijacks airplanes,
ripping apart houses,
and wreaking the most unnatural disaster,
that something so naturally beautiful could bring.

Maybe you held hands to stay on ground,
selfishly motivated to keep king status of your worldly mound
of dirt and keep yourself superior,
with the ability to stay,
due to simple saying "hey"
and seducing my hand to move your way.

So my angel,
Oh yeah, I'll tell you something,
I think you'll understand,
When I'll say that something
I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold your hand.

Oh please, grow your wings
and fly away from me.
Oh please, please come save me,
I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold your hand.

Learning Not to Love Anymore
1/8/2014

Have you ever captured a firefly?
Watched it flutter, trapped in a jar?
Well my heart was once captured,
but trapped in a sinkhole of emotional tar.

I first told you, "Take a chance,"
but we started with an ending, engulfed in azure.
My heart stretched further apart, as yours stayed unsure.
It broke finally.
Vanished in a month's mournful moment,
by the blink of those refusing to cry eyes.

It was the first night I met you,
on my 21st birthday.
You were the stranger of the party.
Nobody knew you, not even me, not yet.

I wanted you to stay that night.
It wasn't love at first sight.
It wasn't lust, but something just felt right.
When your eyes caught mine across the room, my heart took flight.

As time went by and I got to know you better,
I gave you a lot of things you had never really asked for.

I gave you my money when I paid for your drinks.
I gave you my funny with all my awkward winks.
I gave you my secrets though I didn't have many.
I gave you my ***, my first, my virginity.
I gave you my time although it was valuable.
and now I give you this rhyme even though it's not rational.

I gave you these things because I didn't need them.
I gave you these things, hoping that you'd keep them.
But I didn't give you my heart,
although I would have, had you asked for it.
Yet somehow you captured it,
all the while, keeping your's well hid.

Those wings you gave my heart,
eventually they caught on fire.
Crimson bursts ablaze with blood.
A heart that bled but refused to break.
Something inside of me wanted it so badly.
To believe that the good and the bad times would balance out.
And then there I was.  There I left myself.

I live in a world where someone I love lives.
Stuck with a heart whose loud palpitations still vibrate to the rhythm of his.
This heart that refuses to break, but bleeds through its holes
needs to Learn Not to Love Anymore.
I exist on a planet with someone I love.

That ******* firefly in a jar suffocated someday.
But I refused to let my heart break,
no matter how much it gasped for air,
for him to release it from captivity.

I know I didn't write about the great things in love,
How can I share something made up, that  I only dream of?
I never owned your heart or felt it in my hands.
I never saw it in a jar,
or watched it twinkle in your eye, your own private star.
Because it was always buried under your emotional sands.

but that's not the point.
I lied.
I felt your love.
I felt it a lot.
I just don't want to share it with anyone, because I'm clinging on.
I think that with each tear I drop writing about my love for you,
It too will fall from my insides onto my face,
down to the floor where I won't see or feel it no more.
It's not for others to know.
I wouldn't wish that kind of love on anyone.
No, no.

That firefly could have been set free from a jar,
allowed to continue living and fly away somewhere far.
But no matter where it went and no matter how much time passed,
its lungs may have been collapsed from suffocating, trapped.
It would live out the days, its big brave beating heart with a timeless tiny tear.
Then, the firefly would know what it is like to lose in Lovers' Warfare.

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Less is Nice, but Never Not
October 26, 2013

I have this problem.

of turning whispers into shouts.
of my silent cries becoming visible pouts.
of a violent tendency to dislike.
of knowing how I feel like.
of believing that the worst thing I can be,
is just me.

I open every door so the world can come in.
Effortless distraction.
To keep introspection away from myself,
I pull people off the shelf.
I'll take anyone who won't keep quiet.
Hell, if needed, I'd start a riot.
I am a dreadful juggernaut, filled with fright.
Trying my hardest to stay up all night.
Fighting to keep people in my fortress,
creating a collection of voices,
building a constant chorus.
Hiding from the solitude of an empty room in the house,
I advertise to anyone, who I am, and my whereabouts.

But after every conversation in-person or on the phone,
I go home and it sinks in.
I begin to realize,
I am always alone.

Being alone feels like being without.
Being alone feels like being lonely.
Being alone feels like being lost.
Being alone feels like being lonely.
Being alone feels like being misunderstood.
Being alone feels like being lonely.
Being alone feels so lonely.
But being alone feels so much better with someone else.

I feel less alone when I'm not by myself.
I feel less alone when I step out of the stealth.
I feel less alone when I'm surrounded.
I feel less alone when people keep me grounded.
I feel less alone when I laugh or hear laughter.
I feel less alone when I get sought after.
I feel less alone when I live life with a zest.
I feel less alone when I get recognized for trying my best.

Less alone is nice,
but let's be real.
Alone is someone who I will always feel.
Not one second spent not lonely,
not once, not twice.
At least, being less alone can be quite nice,
but this life still hasn't shown me,
how to never feel lonely.
Nobody ever told me.
Being me would mean having to be lonely.
All life has shown,
is that my name should be Alone.

Lovely Petals Burst Poem
3/10/15

Why do we tears petals off of flowers and contemplate love?
He loves me.

Why do we tear clothes off of strangers and contemplate love?
He loves me not.

Why do we tear into lobsters and steaks over candlelight and cloth and contemplate love?
He loves me.

Why do we tear out our hearts to expose them and interrogate them and contemplate love?
He loves me not.

I guess when we think about love, it becomes a destructive force.
Sometimes we throw our hearts like emotionally explosive hand grenades, filled with blood,
these lovely petals are ready to burst,
and I'll get damaged first.

Aspirations
April 22, 2011

The heart and the soul are indeed tender matters.
If I were to say that I put forth all of my spirit into that which I do,
it would differ greatly from pouring monstrous strength, practice, effort, or skill into a task.
It will not suffice to simply write off emotions as such.
They carry such a weight as well as a healing hand which can either break or mend someone.
Those who claim to have experienced the extent of an exercised heart or soul are wrong.
The yearning that is required, the distant outcry for something unobtainable,
the starving blood thirst for internal satisfaction,
that which I, myself do not yet know, and am merely able to speak of due to my unusual reflection.
I should say for us all to stick to mere movements for now.
Build steps here and there, crumble foundations occasionally,
this is how one should practice in order to one day know of the heart and soul,
and should that day arrive all too soon,
one will not feel complete, but a stinging emptiness,
the resounding echo of being bare handed.
For I truly believe that the heart and the soul are the wielders who hold us tools in their hands.

Song in My Head
March 2, 2013

It’s a song that I try to write over and over and over again.
These tiny finger tips touch the pen cap and click, click, click, click.
But this paper just stretches too far to fill.
And this process refuses to start, until it doesn’t feel unreal.

I want you to see my vision.
Not enough to bring to life
Your reflection in the mirror.
A lifeless portrayal is the only way I could hope to get you right.

You are the song in my head.
And that’s okay.
I sing it every day.
I sing it just to show it and also so you know it.
That hey, hey, yeah that’s okay.
I’ve been singing this song, all along.
Just to get to you.
Because this is our song.

Lost the Light Poem
April 23, 2013

Hello darkness.
Can you help me find my friend - the light?
I seem to have lost him.
Ever since, I feel this stinging sharpness.
It’s scary, I feel like I am jumping from a great height.
Unsure, I feel as if I have been paralyzed in my limbs.
What if he doesn’t want to be found?
Will my friend - the light, ever return?
When will I see him again?
No matter how many poems I write.
Or a sad, sad diary entry.
I just can’t make things feel right.
These emotions rock me anything but gently.
It’s all ****.  Gone to ****.
I’ll delete the memories from that day we spent at the mall.
I’ll take another hit.
My medicine can be smelled all the way down the hall.
I don’t want to look at another piece of paper again.
I refuse to pick up my ***** of a pen.
These feelings become thoughts and they translate into words.
I look at them in front of me and read them, they stampede me in herds.
I’m done being undone.
I want to finish what I started.
But if I try to pick up where we left off, I run.
In the wrong direction - away from the sight of you;
so you can’t leave me broken-hearted.
Please release me from your torture chamber.
Being a stranger to your love is no easy labor.
I refuse to be unrequited.
I want to hate you just so I can be spited.
But I can’t.
I’m just a miserable plant.
Denied the light needed to grow.
Until the the darkness fades and you let me know that you’ve decided not to show.

lovers' warfare poem
June 30, 2013

If I fall into love
Will falling further take me out?

The more I learned about them
The less I knew about myself.

When it came to kissing
They had something I'm now missing.

I've closed off communication
Awaiting some big transformation.

But I'm like a machine gun without the bullets
Scary looking yet can't damage anyone.

And I suddenly am hungrier for food
Must be the rift inside me, side-effect of my mood.

Today my bed isn't made and clothes strung out
I've got nobody to impress, my room matches my heart, the scene of a bout.

I lost in lovers' warfare
And since I've felt bruised under my skin, lost reason to care.

Lovers' Warfare Part 2
7/1/2013

You turned right
As I looked left
Behind you in the dust
Of a rusting heart.

The battle of our love was fierce
No words nor weapons used
Not needed when feelings could explode and do more damage.

If I would set off a grenade with a 'I miss you' trigger
You would put the pin back in and lock aim on my emotional headquarters
With a 'You're a dork' ****** scope.

My piercing combat knife with the word 'Boyfriend' engraved on it
Was used once or twice
But not against you - into my heart,
Hoping the wound would heal and cover up what I had wished could be real.

azure sestina
July 16, 2013

Brought to face ourselves finally,
what choices do we have in capturing the moment?
If I were given this chance
it would be most important to know for sure.
Look life in its eyes,
and see their sad shade of deep, blue, azure.

No matter how black my heart taints, or how bloodied my lips are stained, all that matters is azure.
I'm up against a stare that petrifies me, until I beg for freedom finally.
But I am powerless to escape those eyes.
I begin to enter your forever after ending never, in just one moment,
and I feel as though I can't say goodbye until I die, so I can be sure.
Sure that there really would be no second chance.

I first told you, "Take a chance,"
but we started with an ending, engulfed in azure.
My heart stretched further apart, as yours stayed unsure.
It broke finally.
Vanished in a month's mournful moment,
by the blink of those refusing to cry eyes.

I had to see things through your eyes.
So I could know that I should have left this all to chance.
You can blame me in the end, for ruining the moment.
As I rope back in my emotional tide, from the dark depths of azure.
I'll dock that torn up boat at your door, and conclude the voyage finally.
You wanted space, so you've got it, sure.

8/11/2013
Summer Reflection

The summer of 2013.
The summer before my senior year of college.
It was the summer of sensations.

As time proceeded and I lost sight of nearly all initial goals,
I found myself frequently giving in to impulsive behaviors.
The money spending and time spent scheming my next dating endeavor,
or some other wild adventure,
reached an all time high.

It turned out not to be a time of learning as I had previously hoped for,
but instead,
a time of experiencing.

I lived like I never had before - irresponsibly,
yet completely embracing the throws and tides of life.

At first, I fell in love.
Not with my new found lifestyle,
and not with my new identity.
But I fell in love with another human being,
ultimately proving to myself that I am capable and vulnerable of and to the same vices as every other individual.

That started early in the summer as well as ended early
- my own decision,
which I thankfully did not feel damaged or jaded as a result of
- a sign that I have finally formed some semblance of emotional independence!

It was so nice to experience the trust from many friends who due to my recent 'coming out' decided to confide in and come out to me.
I felt kinda like a beacon of hope,
by serving as on open conversation opportunity for many of these friends.
A great responsibility which I gladly took on for them.

On that note,
I noticed a motif for the summer.
It seems as if everybody has recently developed a love life...
or at least a *** life.
So much *** gossip out of nowhere from people who normally don't dare to experience such an escapade.
It was an unprecedented growth maybe having something to do with age trends?
I'm not sure.

But then again,
who could have been back then?

11/22/2013
PitterPat Poem

The trouble of a pitter pat
Tracing where the leak is at

A pitter pat has drip drip drops
Although overflowed it never stops

Once I tried to freeze a clock
But still I heard its tick tick tock

The pitter pat sound once it goes off
Feels ominous an auditory gunshot

And when I sleep, the pitter pat slows
But when I dream, still it shows

The pitter pat has no care for where
It pierces the veil, any shrouds it'll tear.

Love So Strong it Hurts SLAM Poem
1/22/2014

My mother loved me in the ways she thought she should.
Sometimes she drove me to school.
Her nickname for me was 'Cool.'

My mother loved me in the ways she thought she should,
as much as she could that is.

For who could love with a broken heart.
still hanging on to your dead husband
that day I died too.
I knew
growing up had to do.

Turned 12 and games stopped,
lacked desire to talk
just sat - watched the clock
run out
hands break
couldn't escape
so many times
tried to recreate
that night.

Let's go back
Christmas Eve, before 20 four-teen.
I visited the cemetery
Showed my father I had grown.
What would he think could he see what I had shown.
Would he be proud I finished college.
call my generation's music garbage?

What would my father think if I told him I am gay.
"Son that's okay?"
Or would he push me away and say, "Son,
I don't know where I went wrong.
Mother must have loved you too much,
she made you sing a different song,"

But that's wrong,
I don't even know how to sing,
and don't think my mother ****** up on anything.
Can't help but feel resentment though,
which I try my best to hide
deny verbal abuse left feelings' scars everywhere inside.

Suffered a lot from tragic death,
she took it out on me, with that big mouth on her head.
One day, she told me, "I wish you were dead,
I wish you had died, leaving my husband alive instead."
It hurt more the next day,
Drove me, then she started to say,
"Wynn, is everything okay?
You seem upset today.
Don't forget your lunch,
Hey!"

I'm talking to you!
She forgot just how much it meant
things said in fits of rage.
I wouldn't, instead,
inside I'd age and age and age
until I broke down into mush.

Need a walker,
please a little push
of emotional support
stranger to kindly escort
me
keep from falling further
into a world that needed me not,
but never had me forgot,
just locked
up in miscreant prison
a palace for teenagers whose youth had gone missing.


Maybe it had left me on that fateful night,
filled with cold air, *****, and fright.

December 24th, twenty-oh-four.
My dad woke up walked through heaven's doors.
At morning I fought with my brother,
father was a lazy guy, stomach big bloat,
wanted us to get batteries for his tv remote,
and I,
didn't know that day my father would die,
but I,
wish I didn't fight with brother,
march away, ignore simple tasks for another.
Wish I got the batteries,
I didn't know that day my father would die
I didn't know that day my father would die
but why would I?

I learned to be kinder
listen a little longer
made me feel wiser.

My mother looked at his picture on the wall
screamed, "******* leaving me alone with no money at all!"
Just because she wanted to take care of us small
people in a big house
with big hearts match her big mouth
and a slowed heart
match the red hot
fire of hers.
I never tried to start the fights
then again, my memories blocked out blurs.

My mother loved me in the ways she thought she should.
telling me become best I ever could.
Brag about me to her friends,
"Look what my little Wynnie did today,
got his first job at 12."
had no time for my happy hooray,
been working ever since,
make ends meet,
mostly just to hear her say,
"Wynnie is my little prince, he can't be beat."
But I'd go home at night
and she'd say, "You little ****." spit in my eye.
Where were words of praise to be
vanished before they could reach my face

Still I tried to please her,
loved her as much as she loved me,
needed the world to see,
we could make it keep spinning,
with persistent power of our broken family.

Did well in school, got a 4.2 gpa
started partying,
didn't hesitate
to tell her everything,

Because each piece of me
or part of me
became a thing,
and led to yearning
for satisfaction
of recognition
I have motivation

She wanted me to be
the **** best.
Scream at me
and plead for me
Beg me please
that I wasn't trying my hardest.
Couldn't help that it was shallow,
I'd dug up where my heart was long time ago,
filled in cement, escaped torment
of a dead father at age 12,
never wanting to delve
any deeper into tragedy
of life's greatest comedy.

Letting him die that day,
leaving his family
to **** each other,
deny thy mother
and thy brother
any future lover
the ability
to clearly see
what I could be
you here with me,
still,
still,
still,

my heart stopped still
ceased its beating
ceased it bleeding,
ceased its needing,
for toxic things like love
or lust
or any other must
have must not
can't feel
too ****** up.
for you
still,
still,
still,

Still, I hurt from being loved too much
by a mother who could never care enough,
to stop the screaming,
end the shouting,
terrorizing my dreams,
my sight, my hearing,
is still fine

Yet I still I hear her shouting my name
distant in an open plane,
or on airplane
a million miles in the sky,
way up high,
still hear her
hear...her...in...my...ear.
or in my mind
in my memories
never in my sight
because love had me blind.

Now all grown up
I guess I am alright.
Although skin does look kinda white,
bleached from the lies,
I tried to erase,
these scars that still retrace
when I think back to that night,
my father died,
and how I thought my family could be just fine,
if I let my mother continue to love me in the ways she thought she should,
because with a dead husband I thought that was all she could.

I hurt from your love mom,
today we're in a better place,
the way we communicate,
sometimes you still get irate,
I no longer let it penetrate.

Now I love my fate,
the way life sold my childhood,
for that I am great-ful,
to have been so wishful
someday I could stand here say,
I love my mom still,
and that's okay,
because she loves me more, each minute of every day,
sometimes she just shows it in the wrong way.

Written on 11/20/2017

That awkward moment when someone flirts with you on a dating app and says "I like that you look masculine."

You see,
I never saw masculinity as a part of me.

My identity was always flamboyant,
wearing pink shirts and sashes,
crop tops with styling gelled eyelashes,
sparkling headbands and dazzling bandannas,
snapback hats featuring giant bananas,
I dressed with the raging flamboyance of flamingos!
Sporting a certain type of femininity that only a gay man knows.

All the trimming and cutting, and shaving and nairing,
for hours,
as time and body hair intertwined in the showers,
washed masculinity off my body down the drain,
Experienced electrolysis burns, but the pain
had infected my thoughts,
like each hair is unnatural.  

Purge it all,
Scorch and torch it all,
Leave nothing at all!
No trace
of evolution's flawed attempt to grace
me with an adaptive advantage to take on the world's harsh climate.  
I admit,
this hair entangles me and strangles me,
it also oozes out of me like pimples from a pore,
a ***** to testosterone,
poor me - a victim of nature's masculinity.
What a hairy situation I've gotten myself in.

--

Femininity.
Its bestowed upon me by society.
When I sashay or say hey gurl hey,
society recognizes these things as girly and gay,
not a very masculine way to walk or talk.  

Stereotypes about *** and gender are so easily manipulated.
Like a circus performer on the tight rope,
the suspense keeps people wondering where will I fall?

But hold me under a microscope and you will see it all,
a million molecules that makeup my femininity.
I wear skinny jeans and tank tops,
then get complimented on them by dude bros,
like yo that's tight- where'd you get it boss?

I bought it in the girl's section at Ross.

My toe nails painted and displayed for public view,
flip flops emboldened with matching turquoise hues,
Femininity is worn on me like a fabulous armor plate.

--

Fast forward to a fateful date during No-Shave November.
I remember,
growing out my ****** hair for the very first time,
I wore it like a mask,
portraying a fictional character who was masc-uline.
Bathing in manliness at this masquerade.
It was through this charade,
that I grew
... temporary happiness for me from all of you.

The compliments they poured in.
My once smooth canvas of a face,
waiting to be crafted into the Mona Lisa,
had been turned into an artistic masterpiece,
'Gay Man with Amnesia',
of who he used to be.
A painting of someone society wanted,
someone whose masculinity was outwardly flaunted.
But inside, I felt taunted,
each time they complimented
me and my newfound masculinity.

--

Then, it happened on Grindr,
a gay dating app.
This masculine mishap.

A stranger's message read, "I like that you look masculine."
It sounded even stranger in my head.
Their profile description read,

"Masc 4 Masc
Masculine man seeking other masculine men to hangout with."

That's when I felt it.
My mask had made me masc.

This particularly manic morning brought me to ask
myself in the bathroom mirror,
"Who the hell am I looking at?"

In sheer terror, I teared-up,
scanned the portrait of 'Gay Man with Amnesia',
and then decided to tear it up!

I grabbed my electric razor,
grum grum grummm
as these blades grazed my face and chin,
I was offered sweet, soft, porcelain skin - my absolution.

pause

heh heh
When I came to and snapped out of the amnesia,
eager to see results of this restorative procedure,
the mirror was fogged with steam and slop.

I tried logging in to my laptop's webcam,  
for naught.  
The ****** recognition feature -- didn't recognize me
... but finally, I did.

Once again, I see the man behind the masc-ulinity.

Meaningless *** Poem
5/4/2014

Set your gaze upon the man across the bar.
Watch him as he casually drinks a beer and laughs with his friends.
Gossiping about past drunken nights' ends.
Ends that were met with a warm welcome's comfort.
Ends that involved taking a woman to bed without much effort.

How many do you think that man slept with in high school?
A mindless **** count as if they were tools,
willing to be wielded and fooled.
willing to be picked up and ******,
in the back of his ****** '04 pickup truck.

Maybe he's had at least one meaningless ***** with that **** of his.
So tell me this.
Please, why is the *** I have meaningful to him?
If his *** is shallow, then why does mine fill his hatred to the brim?

What's worse is the way he claims to 'know.'
The signs I give off that are guaranteed to show.

1. I wear tight underwear.
2. Their color scheme has a brightly colored flare.
3. I sit with my legs crossed in a chair.
4. That tells him I want it down there.
3. I get up and walk to the bathroom with a sway,
2. No straight man would dare do that.
1. ****** Marys and Long Islands are dead give-a-ways,
0. I held hands with a man walking into the bar.

But the same as him,
I could take someone home and forget their name.
I could gloat about it to friends the next night out for two minutes' fame.
I could go on with what to him could be an ordinary day.
But because it's me, it's more meaningful to him.
Because I am gay.

Let's have a toast for the ******* as Kanye once said.
Let's have a toast for homophobes who take women meaninglessly to bed.
meanwhile my meaningless *** only finds meaning in their heads.

Messy Soul Poem
1/25/2014

I cleaned my room once.
They say cleaning cleanses the soul, but...
What if I like mine *****?

What if I don't regret those nasty sins?
You know, those things,
committed in the parking lot of a bar.
Like that time I keyed a drunken *******'s car?

What about when I poured my drink down the sink,
because I didn't want you to think I was such a light weight,
and make myself a fool in front of you?

What about at your mom's house,
we stayed up all night watching movies,
trying to conceal our loud laughs to not wake her up,
because **** she is crazy.

What about at the movie theater,
during the opening credits,
when I threw candy at the people in front seats,
because really who the **** likes to sit in the front seats??  
I mean they had it coming.

Or what about those times on my knees,
and saying, "Nobody hear this please,"
but I really did hope just a little bit, maybe.
What?  Don't take that the wrong way.

I was talking about praying in my bedroom,
while you walked downstairs to grab a drink of water,
praying that you might really be happy with me,
and if not, then that you never find your happiness,
if that meant choosing to leave me.

I thought about these things,
these nasty sins.
And after, I decided not to clean my room again for a while.
I like my mess.
That shiny sheen of bland brown carpet covered in dust,
is the most beautiful thing I've seen all my life.


Because I've been the one holding 3 suitcases at the airport,
trying to get to my terminal,
back **** near ready to break,
but the bag broke first,
spilling out all my **** onto the floor.
and eventually I just said, No More.

My soul can't afford another spill
For that kind of damage,
I'd need a dump truck to pick up the mess.
But I digress,
there are some things I hold on to,
somethings that I refuse to clean.

Like that love note I found under my bed,
from when I had just turned seventeen.
or like the math test I got an A on,
because I ****** at math and I felt really proud of it,
or like the first pornographic photo I ever printed out,
don't worry I've kept it clean.

And there are some things in my soul,
that as much as I don't want to see them anymore,
I keep held in store.

Like my middle school friend Deja.
I told her my life story and lived a bit of it with her too.
To be fair for asking her to keep it,
I've held on to hers too.
Like the time she played in her rock band,
at the largest school assembly.

She dedicated the song to me saying,
"To Wynn wherever you are."
she looked up at the audience and people thought she looked to heaven.
They thought I died and were relieved to see me at school the next week.

I wish I could dedicate this poem to her in front of all of you
and look somewhere distant in the audience saying,
hey gurl, this is for you.
but truth is, I know where she is, where she lives,
we just aren't friends anymore.
but I won't tell her I wrote this.
Because truth is, sometimes my soul likes to keep its little secrets.

Somethings take me longer to clean than others.
Like the bottle of body wash my first love left at my apartment,
thinking someday I would return it to him,
but instead I'd frequently wash with it
to wash him out of my mind
but his trace wasn't hard to find,
easy to recognize,
his scent was stuck to my pillow,
and I tasted him in my tears,
as I wept each night,
wondering how I could cleanse myself of everything
we had been through this past year.

Sometimes I like a mess in this ***** soul of mine.
Sometimes I like to think if I leave it there I'll be fine.
But sometimes when the mess gets too big,
I'll feel the need to clean it,
but the funny thing about a mess is,
it comes back,
the more clothes you wear,
the more food you eat,
the more promises you don't keep.
the more times you lay awake at night, unable to sleep,
drink, ****, *****, scream
wondering when you'll wake up from this dream
It looks like a hellish nightmare,
staring at the piece of you trapped in my ***** soul.
My vacuum broke, it won't pick up the dirt anymore
My heart feels sore,
brain broken dumb and numb
can't seem to clean up this mess,
get lost figuring out where I should start from.

Ouch.

I think I'll leave my room messy this week,
to reflect my inner think.
because I don't think I could make a bigger mess than all the things I ****** up with you.

but what if I don't want to be clean
if that means cleansing my soul of you.


I want to make new bad decisions and have room in my ***** soul to store them.
So every now and then I cleanse it, letting go of things stored, but paying their toll.

MLK Day poem.
January 16, 2012

It speaks as if rainbow was a color.
A prism pyramid, built by a union of bricks.
Brick by brick, it stands, a structure, with the purpose to deliver a message.
A message as simple as that it stands there, as a structure.
A message, which promotes we, over she, he, it, they, or them.
It stands at the door of indifference.
It lies asleep, in an enclave of humanity's mind.
Awaiting its great awakening, the rainbow has always been there.
But no matter how much you may search for it, only we can find it.

Morning Mystery
May 26, 2013

What oh what, wuh-oh what will my early morning bring?

A bird's chirp to greet her family.
The sunrise says hello to my eyelids.
No better medicine than the sunlight no longer hid.

Slowly a car passes either starting or ending their day.
Either way, the driver seemingly reluctant - understandably.

Leaves, branches, twigs, and sticks all being toyed with by the playful wind.
Sweeping through the trees in my front yard.

I see a world awake beyond my window.
This morning mystery is begging me to solve
what it takes to make a day great.