Laughs marooning on the shore
The wind tried to drown them
But the sea only wanted more

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.

You were Malaise—
A smile for my questions,
Talking benevolently—
And I was the hesitant
Realization that you had
never really answered
A single one
of them.

There was a transience to the laughs,
A way it all fell out of focus--
Bright for an instant, only to diminish
Into something that never existed.

Slick-tongued quips and smiles
Enticed by a topical instance,
How do I feel knowing
That nothing is lasting?

An umbrella of headphones,
And an open bible--
The world is never constant,
But Jesus is the exception.

What is the basis of my faith?
What is the thought, the belief
I have, that casts colored glass
Over the rest of who I am?
Is it the word “love,” “forgiveness”
Or is it “disappointment?”
Am I bathing in a subconscious
Foundation of not being enough?
How can I consistently do right
By Him if I do not have faith
In his love?

I hope I have not been unkind,
Or muddled the world
With swine-like words.
Put my life on rewind;
Moonwalk my shoes
Back to the first time
I saw your eyes---
Uncertain, but kind
Did genuine disgust
Scare you away?
What can I say
To convince you
It was all a lie,
A scathing mask
Plastered on my face,
Always trying to dissuade
Unwelcome emotions
From broadcasting
Through the way
I say your name?

When I look back on my words
In the suffocating dredges
Of night, thoughts as fallen stars
And eyes refusing to close,
I wish for nothing more
Than to feel Your presence
Filling the hollows of my room
And the ghastly shadows I had
Envisioned as looming figures—
A gold-brushed light bathing
My insomniac regrets with
The love that is perfect
And unfailing, no matter
How much I doubt.

There is always a moment
when I wish I didn’t feel
like prey at the bottom
Of the ocean.

Did I teach myself to breathe
underwater, sinking and never
Coming up for air,
watching the surface
Grow darker and darker—
cold satin on my skin,
A thin film over gills,
Knowing I would never
kick my legs, flail my arms
Was it I,
who put myself here?

She was a torn tapestry,
A picture of indecision
As her life hang
In the balance—
A decorative plate,
Watching itself shatter
In the dormant hallway—

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

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.

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.

Come down, dear,
That banister,
its higher than it appears.
Your small feet,
they slip so easily--
Climb down,
before the suspended
Bridge begs your ears.
I drowned once,
in my own refusal of answers--
I havent been that young
in years.
Pudgy hands and forming fear,
Free roam can lead you
anywhere.
Take my hand, dear,
Let me guide
the anxieties you hear;
Why listen
To desperate attempts
at mindless subterfuge--
Its more than one can bear.
Especially one so small,
so pure--
Come down, dear
Use the stairs.

Calm yourself down, child.
They spoke in gentle tones
Words suppressed, mild
Their reassurances
Sank uselessly like stones.
My fingers flicked away
Everything they claimed
To own--
Broken bones, a shriveled soul;
Who is a child
If not a fully inflated balloon,
Full to the bursting
Before scandalous wild
And shaking sorrow
Maliciously chipped away
Their countenance,
Puncturing the elastic
Until the vibrance
Lay in a thousand
Stretched pieces

My own disobedience
Trailed behind me
In a squeaky red wagon,
Tired and rusting,
Burdened from its
Heavy accumulation
of grief and self-criticisms.

I am filled with the white noise

Of anxiety—a silver car
Slashing through the night,

Headlights flickering.

I did not see it hit me.

Nor did I feel when it left.
did it ever really leave?

The humming of its engine
Is ever present in my heart
And in my head.

Am I on the side of the road,
Or am I lying comfortably
In a cushioned chaise?


It makes no difference.

The environment does not
Alter the metal sponge
Chafing my thoughts,
Trying to clean them,
Brutal and rough,

I am filled with so much—

Why can’t I seem to choose
What my heart consists of?

Velvet words on red lips--
They fell with the weight
Of dormant hopes
And whispered goodbyes,
A flickering lightbulb
Going off in her eyes--
The jaunty smile of her skirt
Seemed to deflate,
Hanging limply just below
Her bruised knees--
She said so many things.
Now was the time
To say the ones
she missed.

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?