An arm's length
Of distance--
A question on
Hesistant lips.
A shake of a head,
An answer tinted
With resignation--

Because he is a fragile soul
Formed of glass and passion—
The pieces lay on their sides
—already broken.

Ludus to mania—
A love of playfulness
turned dark and
Estranged, a burgundy
of serial romantics.
When is enough?
does the obsession
Have an end,
Or will it continue
To be fed
by daily longing
And provocation,
a cruel satisfaction
From stopping the hearts
Of others, feeling fulfilled,
only to have the need
To do it
All
Over
Again.

I am a downed tree slowly
Shedding its rough bark,
Growing pale & vulnerable
In the forest of Your love.

It was a careless murmur,
Spoken on a belated night,
Settling itself in the air
As they spoke on and on.
The words meant nothing
To them.
“Grandma passed away,
Oh yeah. . .”
“Because I love you,
But see. . .”
“Remember your aunt?
She died.”
They were soft words,
Meant to be recieved
Lightly, on silent hands—
But they were surrounded
By so many others, all
Tangled around, until
They didn’t feel real

Anymore.

Rolled tight with insecurities,
A coat to protect me from the cold.
Knowledge deflects hurt.
I hate, and I hate, and I hate--
So your hatred can never pierce
The enmity I have already created.
I take care of them like animals,
Plants, fueling the dislike,
Until compliments hurt me more
Than any insult ever did.

I let the pool widen at my feet,
The vanity of myself leaking
From my body, gathering at
My ankles, forming an ocean.

One day, as I no longer relied
On my own strength, I saw
I was walking on the water
Of Grace.

I love when the sky's eyes are sinking,
               as if sluggish,
the wind a soft melody hummed
           through a tired, but resigned
                      mother’s lips.

There is so much life in the air
    at dusk;
              but it is gentle:
                             The soft rushing of cars,
              far off yowls from stray cats,
a muted conversation between
          a strolling couple.

I feel lost in this world, but somehow
     that makes me feel
                         more at peace--
Because in this moment,
        there is no
               pressure on me.

Tattoos on the inside
Of my eyelids;
I saw the words
Every day—
How come I still
Never listened?

The timetable was slanted,
Askew in the dusty light.
No one had checked in,
Nor out, in years.
What was that sound,
That beating of the walls?
I stood in my empty heart.

She never met his eyes.
it was not intentional,
Yet she knew it was not right.
Perhaps she was afraid
That once he saw the trellis
To her mind, he would climb inside
and realize she was a fraud.

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

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

Look at the time,
Its right on your wrist--
How could you have missed
That one little moment?
It seemed so very big
But to you,
I’m only a showman--
With nothing but lists
Of commands
And tired jazz hands

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

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

Where was I?

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

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

They ordered velocity at the top of the list,
Pure speed the most high of achievements.
She was young, a famed prodigy
But her talents were no longer relevant
When her limbs lengthened
And her skin began to lose definition
For who wants anyone ordinary?
If only you can race to the goalpost,
swing your flag, and keep running
Quick, quick, because time
And other’s disappointment
Is chasing at your feet.
But when that day finally comes
Where you can no longer continue

At that break-neck speed,
And people cease
To acknowledge your feats,
Will there be anything left
In you to keep striving?
Or have you burned out too quickly?

I hung back, scared of what
The wall between us would do
If I came any closer.
The silence wound around my
Throat, and my eyes searched
For something to latch onto.
Was it the forced civility that
Made our conversations feel
Like a business deal?
Or was that truly how we felt?

I imagined that once I was surrounded
By hills of green felt and descending
Fog, that I would find the words
Settle on my tongue—
My hand would feel sure,
Clenched around a pencil,
And soft atop keys--
But I also knew, that I might
Just sit there, framed by the misted
Windows, limned in condensation,
And stare at the words that would not form.

Wings are unnecessary.
We do not need them
To leave the nest.
They add a flight of risk,
A freedom full of aesthetic
--But perhaps
It is more poetic
To dig your beak
Into the cypress,
Lowering yourself,
With each wood chip
A hole in the descent
To unfeathered freedom.

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 slow elevator and a full panel
Of glowing, numbered buttons—
I wait patiently, tapping my foot,
Smiling cordially as body after
Body enters the slicing doors,
Making it warmer, stuffier. 

My lungs fill slower as itchy

Fabric stands next to me,
(Awkward silence and futile
Attempts at small talk,)
But when my floor finally

Flashes above with a ding,
I cannot make it through
The throng of tentative
Hand gestures and pressed
Bodies—My arm barely slips
Through a gap, and I think
That my fingers will stop
The doors from closing--
But they only jam on my
Bones, crunching the knuckles
Before descending further,
Dragging my broken flesh
And screams lower and lower. 

Only then do the bodies shrink
Back against the walls,
Giving me space to fall to
My knees, gasping at the pain
And the dormant button of the
Floor to my missed exit.

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

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

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?’

When we look at the formative years
Of our lives, in docile innocence,
We see so many faults—
Things we must fix, or else
We risk living our whole lives
on repeat. Is it too hard to think,
That sometimes, we change
Too much, and end up so far
From any semblance of good,
That we are worse than before,
As we were in our youth?

What if I question myself?

What if who I thought I was. . .

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

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