Your voice was a quiet calm
a prelude to darker skies and
the storms you kept hidden
beneath cumulus smiles

You called me a storm chaser
maybe you were right, love
because I've always found the sound of rain
on hardened surfaces soothing

The gentle way water
patiently waits, biding its time
till even rock gives way and surrenders
forming mountains, and rivers deep

This is how canyons are formed
deep rifts within the soul
with nothing left to bridge the divide, pursuit becomes impossible
but maybe that was the goal all along

Maybe I pursued you knowing that you'd run
and you became my rainbow
Because you knew, no matter how close I think I am..

we'll always still be miles apart

The clock's ticking
ticking, ticking
a reminder that
we all must die

It's subtle tocking
subconsciously telling its tale;
live for today, for tomorrow
may be a hollow dream

I choose to live rather than to hasten death
feeling comfort in knowing that I do so to the fullest,
not storing empty promises, or
stacking lie upon lie

We live in moments, only fractions at a time
these moments come and go
teaching us that all things are temporal
and all things come with a shelf life

*even gods

Two galaxies colliding, you and I
I felt your gravity draw me in
the moment I saw you and we kissed our hellos
My boundaries blurred by your lips

Our union may have been
an anomaly of probability  but
our pieces fell into place like
a mosaic of paradox & unspoken wishes

One day death will come and this world
fashioned from our stardust will
expand and contract, until the weight
of our love forces it to collapse

Our final kiss will give birth to
distant stars that shine in our memory and
the waves of light bouncing from your face to mine
will  become flower and soil

One blooming and the other sustaining
because nothing ever truly dies
our whole will always be greater
Than the sum of our broken hearts

"I am old" said he
with furrowed brows and weary eyes
leaning closer, as if he had monsters to face
lessons yet to learn, and paths to retrace

"I've lived and loved" said he
he spoke of days come and gone
his eyes sparkling tales every now and again
the stars shining closest, now seeming quite dim

"I've done things" sighed he
bent over, from a weight pressing down
his shoulders slumped forward as if burdened by lies
sadness conveyed by the shame in his eyes

"Forgiveness is yours" said I, leaning in closer yet
I whispered "The demons are gone, and you've no reason to fret"
then I squeezed him so tightly, till he felt mercy unfold
"Your secrets now spoken, and you've broken their hold"

His heart felt relieved, but
he slowly perceived, that his  
confession was heard only by
the mirror as he silently grieved

My childhood was filled with Sundays
full of hellfire and brimstone
that burned more bridges down
than they ever built

As a child, my curiosity ran wild
always questioning the unquestioned
and all too often, the answer given
sounded more like a parable than epiphany

As an adult,  knowledge became flame
setting fire to the things once held as sacred and true
and I had to choose to either rise, a Phoenix, or
spend my life sifting through the ashes

Such a simple journey for some, but I took the long way home

“If you're not careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed, and loving the people who are doing the oppressing.”
-Malcolm X

I once read “The history of the world
is but the biography of great men.”
I read those words slowly, then paused
so I could take them all in

Show me a great man
and I'll show you a history of lies
historians cleansing blood from hand
muting the truth, no matter how loud it cries

The biographies of the "great" are almost always
inked in the blood of martyrs and greater men
scarring temporal lobes, and obfuscating memory
the sword, falling prey to pen


"Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings
where we had shoulders smooth as ravens claws"
-Jim Morrison

I spoke those words, and
immediately almost choked on them
I always second guess decisions,
usually I conclude I made the wrong one

but with you it felt right, at first
now I'm only left with doubts, and the thought
that maybe it was all too soon
because there's only silence between us

you rarely open up to me
yet when you do, I feel loved
the moment is always fleeting
with you, it's  either feast or famine

now I am scared to death to even talk to you
I'm scared that I might've lost you
scared of what you'll say, or not say
when all I really want to know is...

do you feel the same way about me?

Come and gone, the calm
but the storm is far from over
it lingers in the what-ifs, and taunts
us from the fringes of maybe

This storm, will eventually pass
and the memories of love gone
reborn as odes and psalms
birthing life, from their flowering decay

The poet's capacity to love, rivalled only
by their ability to suffer, but
what a beautiful misery it is! as it lies in wait
for the moment it will flood from pen to page

Laughter and sonnets, will perch on sated lips
after sadness has run its course
and for awhile, all will be well again  
leaving poets to ponder love's mysteries

How ironic it is!
the way lovers leave, repelled
by their hatred of the very thing
that once drew them near

You see, poets are like paintings
beautiful from afar, we are
but flawed strokes on cracked canvas
the closer you come

Yet still, there is beauty in our flawed and fragile array

We are the words within our poetry, but
we are so much more than sweetened syllables
we are everything you wanted once, and you
**never even made it past our cover