Wind Howl Poem
9/24/2014

"Why does the wind howl?"
I think it has lost its voice.
Now only able to summon screeching sounds like scratches,
clawing their way up from a wispy throat.

"Why does the wind howl?"
I found myself asking this unusual question,
for the second time this week.

I think it has found a reason to blow breeze with such brutal force.
Breaking silence found in strange places it visits,
not wanting to whisper - the wind would rather howl.
Its presence must be known.

... Wouldn't you want to howl, too?

You are not cute Poem
3/5/2014

“You are cute.”

No.
Cute is a creature,
A little woodland chipmunk,
And I have news for you.
I don’t eat acorns or live my life in that wrong tree you’re barking up.
I’m not the poster child of a PETA campaign.

No.
Cute is a bow on a neatly packaged gift.
One with some fancy pattern.
And I have news for you.
There is nothing neat about this package, nor is it seasonal,
It won’t arrive on your doorstep for a special occasion.
I’m packaged with so many deep layers you couldn’t have it open in time for next year’s Christmas.

No.
Cute is young and unprofessional.
A little child playing with toys.
And I have news for you.
I’m not your toy.
You can’t pick me up to play, at your convenience, to then drop me on the floor forgotten.
And I’m a grown *** man – nothing cute about hangovers, hair loss, bills to pay, and unwashed laundry.

No.
Cute is not what we should aim for.
Cute is a one-liner and I am a Master’s Thesis.
Cute is what you’ll say before you cruise me online, ***** me, and then you’ll try to use me.
I’ll tell you what is cute though – you feeding me such a shallow compliment,
When really you should be treating me to the five-course conversation.
Ask me about my credentials darling,
Bachelors Degree with double majors,
working on law school and a PhD.

And finally, No.
I’m not ‘****,’ ‘***,’ ‘*****,’ ‘tool,’ ‘trick,’ or ‘****,’ either…
That’s only on Tuesdays.

Young and Naive Poem
2/18/2014

I'm feeling trapped in these walls.
Ready to fall
through the floor.
Don't wanna sleep in my bed no more.
I can't see in the dark,
but unsure - I could feel more secure.
_
I ran home when I was a kid.

You picture a sad child running away from their family.
But I ran home to tear off my clothes.
To stand in the shower and numb my brain
with senseless waste of water.
Drops smashing violently against my face.
Distracted me from the real storm approaching.

If I could wet the air
I draw in for breath,
maybe the heavy gravity of things
would become more apparent.

If those violent water drops soaked into my pores,
maybe they could sink into my thoughts.
If I could do that,
then I could be somewhere else.

I was worried I would have to disappear
from a world that I loved too much.
A world I loved too much
for it to love me back and yet still have me hate it.

I could not accept the things that just could not change.
Luckily, if you want to call it luck,
there was still too much I needed to say,
…. yet too much wanting to remain the same...
And all the same, it's all the same,
just maybe with another name.

Or another person,
and in another year,
their acting will worsen.

For shame I blame.
My steps scorched the Earth,
burning up under the pressure
Of a body bloated heavy with burden.
A ****** buddy without a body - its called a thought that you don’t want.
With the heavy weight, and my boots quake
My resolve, it shakes.
So settle down.

Listen…

The little boy who went running through the streets.
No he was rollerblading.
No it was me, as a child.
I was strolling, so carefree.

A long ago day,
before I became me.
He said, “I resolve to be drug free.”

...
To be so young and naive.

Your Life as a Poem
March 24, 2011

If I could write a poem that would touch the world, I would.
If it could reach out beyond the paper and touch your face, then it should.
Something so surreal, that it's like a scene from a movie brought to life.
It embodies all your struggles and your strife.

Your life on paper, written as a poem.
Since you can see it, how does it look?
Does the poem talk about your home?
Does it tell your life story like an open book?

Do you like what you see?
What would reading your poem say about you to me?
If your poem reaches out to you, what would you do?
Would you be content and let it sit on a shelf, or be concerned and try to change yourself?

Since the poem's still unfinished, it's up to you to write the next line.
It belongs to no one else - your own unique design.

Do you wonder where it should start or how it will end?
Or have you already made up your mind?
I trust that you know who you really are, somewhere deep, down, inside.

This is my poem that I have shown.
Now it is your turn to write your own.