Mason substaining an undisclosed injury
concussion against pittsburg
less time to think
Mason gets hit
Stunned
head buzzing
comeback produced
he wanted so bad since he was a kid
he wanted to play in the stanly cup playoffs
concussion

Sometimes you set me on fire
But it’s not burning, it a small tea light candle
But it pokes me and prods me
Hurts my fingertips
In the best kind of way
I worry I like you more than you like me
And that’s not a bad thing
But I don’t think it’s a good thing
Because I like you in all the ways
That people think I should love you
But is that love?
What is love?
And is that something I want?
If you care about me more than I can feel
Or say
Is that enough?
What is enough?
Enough kisses? Hugs?
Enough time holding hands?
Enough times waking up with you,
falling asleep too?
We tip toe around the word
And I don’t mind
Should I mind?
What does it mean to care about someone?
Or to care for someone?
I’m deeply in like with you
And I know this because
I feel completely free with you,
Free to talk, laugh, dance
I cannot explain how much I like that you dance with me
Even if it’s for a quick moment.
I don’t think straight sometimes
You make me think of everything
I want your honesty and mind
Thoughts, and I so want you to be a person
Because I think that’s all I really want in life
(Isn’t that all everyone wants?)
To be a person but with another person?
Because we all are looking for something, usually someone
To be ourselves with

I didn't want to remember
but never tried to forget
and I almost didn't leave
yet I wouldn't go back
I wish I hadn't chosen
but wouldn't change a thing
I'm constantly humming a tune
yet without a song to sing
Feeling so claustrophobic
but afraid to venture outside
I'm sitting here hopefully
yet dwelling on goodbyes
I refuse to release more tears
but my eyes are brimming still
as I linger in warm thoughts
always confused about how I feel

i sip from the wineglass
holding the stem as though I am
high class
the liquid splashes into my mouth, waking my tastebuds
the bubbles burn my throat as I
chug and chug and
no - i lightly sip
and wait for the days when it is socially acceptable to my mother
to drink something stronger than red
mountain dew, mixed with juice

and as the eclipse meets the eye of a fish
so does the Holy Spirit stand in your midst
please go and find for yourself, that one day you may realize
how much more there is than what meets the eye
does the fish ignore what is outside of the water or does he respond
by any chance is there any astonishment in that consciousness of a fish
but before you think of it
decide for yourself whether you would gain from it or not
would that fish desire to know about it or even try to live for it
'*** little does that fish know
that eclipse is what controls the tides

On my every birthday
I give my mother
Flowers.

Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

~

Sad Existence


It is a sad existence, that of a poet
with flowery phrases and disguised meanings
Tossing out happy faces like quarters
splashing in a wishing well with no bottom

Painting heartstrings in an amber shade of gold
lingering silver linings losing their crease
in frayed bottomed hip huggers
that are long out of style

Swishing fragrant melodies on starch white paper
collecting lines in neat rows and margin’d desires
lips fluttering and eyelashes batting
well below the league's average

Whispering notions of sheer delight,
tantalizing rapid pulses pushing blood
through narrow corridors finding
locked garden entrances in chained Jasmine

Dreaming dreams that only a dreamer could dream
all the while knowing that when they awaken
pen in hand, ink at the ready
these dreams shall never come true

It is a sad existence, that of a poet…who believes their own dreams