He said my touch was soft,

         Gentle, the hands of a babydoll.

But he didn’t know how much

         They shook. How come that

Didn’t leave a mark, didn’t

          Mar the skin with callauses?

They wrung themselves dry,

           Holding my head, pressed under

My legs--all to stop the constant

           Murmur of jangling keys that

Coursed through them.

They say our brains
Mature over the years.
But what if they only
Destroy themselves before
they can be fully formed?

I am drying paint.

I sit back and watch

Myself grow less glossy,

More dull and emotionless.

The metal protested
As you twisted the bulb
Into place.

It screamed, not wanting
To light up, preferring
Darkness.

Without it, we could not see,
But that did not change its
Preference.

Despondency resided in
The shadows of a high
Ceiling.

It needed your stubborn,
Caring hands to change its
Perspective.

My ankles were sore
From standing on my
Tiptoes,
Trying to ascertain
The words in your eyes.
There were none
For me;
You were guarded,
Your gaze obstinate as
You looked straight
Ahead,
Never wavering or
Crouching down to let
Me see into your
Head.

The gramophone shuddered
As unfamiliar voices swirled
Through its wallowing pipe,
Wondering when it grew so
Croaky, so old, so unlike itself.

I sat too long.
And now,
My life has pins
And needles.

The leather belt trailed
Behind him as he walked.
It dragged on the floor, as if
Weary from a long day’s work.
Was it tired of hearing kid’s
Scream? did it wince with
Every hit, wishing it
Didn’t cause them?

Can I hold on to this laugh
A little longer?
Can I cover it with my body,
Like a child under raining
Debris, ensuring
It survives?
They are so far & between,
How can I remember this
When my frown
Grows deep?
Let me shield this golden
Laugh, preserving it,
Even after it is
Only a memory.

The hourglass is waning,
I say to myself, staring at
It all day long, waiting for

It to run out, to prove me
Right. But why didn’t I use
That time? Why did I just
Stand there, watching it,
And myself, waste away?

My fingers have started to prune
And my eyes have begun to dull.
I look at the ***** bath water
And wonder if I’m getting old,
Or if I have only sat in stagnant
Water for too long, waiting for
It to clear, waiting for the power
To go out despite knowing that
All this time, I had the choice
To stand up and drain the tub.

Smudged peace-signs
On corrogated metal.
Chalk that frowned,
Not understanding its
Purpose or the message
People had assigned it.
In this time, it was not
Seen as sign of peace,
But only the failure, the
Death, met by those who
Thought they held the
Solution to the fall of
Man. But they didn’t
Grasp that peace was
Unattainable, and only
Mercy and salvation
Could offer what they
Sought so steadfastly.

Lord, I am a mime, pounding
On the invisible walls of my
Own life, suffocating in a box
I didn’t know surrounded me—
Where is the key? Is there a
Loose brick, a fissure in the
Dam? The silence is deafening,
And water begins to pool at
My feet, slowly rising—I call
For help, but my words are
Warbled, incoherent and lost
As they richoet back to me.
The mortar scrapes my fists,
Making the air ******, and I
Call out to you, Lord; I ask
For you to be my home, my
Foundation, not this craggly
Prison I incased myself in—
So many years of building
The walls of distrust as the
Water of anxiety mills about
Me—Lord, let me breathe, fill
My lungs with your spirit and
The love I have been avoiding.

Words do not flow in logical sentences--
They create towns and political systems,
Going about their days with no regard
For how I try to organize them. I am the
Tyrant instigating taxes and cutting
Down trees, suffocating my people in 

An attempt to build the perfect society.

I was
Supposed to be good at it.
The words were supposed to flow,
Unconditionally. I was supposed
To make grown adults huddle
Under their bedsheets, booklight
Spreading a faint halo over the
Pages in a way they hadn’t done
Since they were a child.

I was
Supposed to be a storyteller;
A way for people to feel heard
As they escaped from a world
They wished they didn’t know—
But, now, at least, understood a
Little better. I was supposed to. . .
I was supposed to. . . Did I
Overestimate myself?

I was never
A prolific writer, brimming with
The prose that made the final
Page of a book feel like a funeral;
But I thought I could craft people
That resonated, that seemed real--
It seems I was wrong.  

I was
Supposed to realize what I wanted

To be a long, long time ago, and
Now. . . Well, now, I'm only
Supposed to move on.

Hit the mat, hit the gravel,
Fall on your face, get up
Again and again; you’re
Bleeding and torn, your
Hair falls around crooked
Shoulders, and you shake
As you stand there—where
Has the enemy gone? You
Look at your fists and only
See shards of glass—looking
Up, you meet your own eyes. 

Mirrors huddle all around,
Broken and crying blood,
But you could have sworn
That they were real people,
That your fist had connected
With a human jaw, and as
You watch, the mirrors repair
Themselves like a jagged
Smile; and you know that
its time to fight again.

Bobble heads on teetering shelves,

There are so many eyes, looking


Down on me. I try to reach up to

Still their shaking heads, but even


When I jump, I cannot seem to reach.

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.

The sloppiest poem,
A few scant words,
Splotchy ink and
Crumpled paper—
It now lays flat
Behind glass,
Pored over
By scholars
And plastered
On tall windows,
Does it have value?
—Who is qualified to
Judge what is ‘good?’

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?

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?

I am a rug holder,
rolling out lavish
Red carpets
for those who
Walk through
my life. And
I am a placeholder,
lying on the wood
As spiky heels
and mud-caked

Boots, trod over
me, leaving streaks
In my bristles,
and flattening
All the chances I had.
i am a doormat,
Too worn, too *****;
i was tossed out back
To wait for the big
green trucks to come
And take me, the
burden, far, far away.

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.

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