Tea in the morning seems like a task
Out of reach.

To be able to be myself,
Even for a moment while I take a sip.

Most mornings it’s just get up and go.
No time for even a little time.

There is no time to steep leaves
When the world begs for attention

That I’d rather give myself.
But the world does not care if I
Crash and burn in the wreckage

That is being alive.
We all pay the toll every day
When we wake and feel the sweat

On our foreheads that house dreams.

Be it tea or any other small joy,
It’s not meant to be an easy reach

Unless you sacrifice a task
In its gratifying favor.

Another cold morning
Next to the paint-chipped bus stop sign.
A weeping heart can never board
When a bus has never reached the spot.
Still, there is faith in the music of
Approaching tires on the pavement,
But for now, there is only a light breeze.

Will the end be reached
With a clear head ready
For the clouds—
I want nothing in my hands
But certain amity
With what my back carries.
I wish to remove the led
From my shoes but in
The early hours, I slip
Them in unknowingly.
I’m sorry clouds.
I know to leave the weight
Behind and I’m working
Toward being a feather—
Easily carried by the sky’s
Breath to meet you in bliss.

I can hear your bonfire lungs,

Your prickled sensibilities
Wreak havoc on watered stone.

There is a lurching pond
The size of a dime
In my tell-all hands.

I could wait for iceberg brimstone

But I'd be left to falter
Against a drop through a needle eye.

A delicate rift is in the works
And where will we be when
We realize we’ve fallen over
The brutal drop?

Our eyes remain motionless,
Deceived, hardwired for
The next best thing

As we wrinkle and fingers
Begin to fail.

I no longer want the
Glue in my eyes,
The black and white,

The muteness of
False connection.
I’ll break through the
Stones around me and
Want for others
To do the same.

Eulogy under a gumshoe sole,

Burning—dragged between tire tread,

Papers blotted, lines crossed out,

Unanswered apologies, sweating

Under embers that dry tears.

We are at a breaking point

In a summer lost to nostalgia.

I do not fear the heavens
Catching me lacking—
There is nothing in the bag
To hide. I carry all of me.

There is however a record shoved
Between the bookends
Of birth and death.

Let that pain or joy speak
On my behalf.
I am too tired to fight.

If the sun rose at midnight
The empty woods would wake,
Stones would bounce and rest
Upon glassy-surfaced lakes.
Electricity would shout and burn.
The truth would live
In the uncovered shine.
Cut loose leaves would return
To stems and live as if they
Were mine.

Dew can be found
Upon my cheek
During the waking sun.

Through the captive lens
I see your smile

In windows

That allow gusts
Of our humanity to pour
Over our skin.

There is dew upon
Your cheek as well.

Feed me to the flowers

And I’ll green their stems

While ghosts

Leave painted stones

To honor progress.

I remember your knives and empty threats.
They echo off the walls and down the hall,
Even in places not my childhood home.
My favorite color used to be blue
Now it is a color that I always feel and I feel
Thick ink under my skin where I shouldn’t have
To be stained.
I remember when the door would slam
And my heart would slam shut too.

Hell carries my blood—
As I am a puzzle that brings
Confusion
To one-track minds
That would quickly turn their
Backs to rescue their views.
A lost cause—that’s how
I stain their eye,
A lost child in need of saving,
But only if the points
Are earned and I am
Thrown away.

To the core,
I could be rotting
As an apple does.

My thick skin is
Peeled away

But it’ll be a challenge
To chew me down
To remove the seeds.

Will we keep our friendship around our necks
Or store it on the curio shelf?

Isn’t that a question we can never
Truly answer until time has slipped away.

I’d like to think of course,
It’s written on our skin, on our hearts,

But how can we be sure we can keep carrying
The burdens of our youth

When some are quick to store away
Each other in a forgotten memento box.

I remember you.

I miss our time, our exploration,
There were worlds traveled and life

Was too big for the lot of us.

We told stories, wrote unseen novels for
A future that was never ours.

I still hear you. How are you doing?

My heart is a hurricane

And sometimes I am lost.

My head falls to clouds

And the lightning

Shatters my hope.

There are moments of

Weakness—sure,

Although I can see

The rainbow waiting.

Taste melancholy fever dreams.

Listen for the spoken word

That tore your youth.

How is the tea treating you?

Catch me bleeding
Dramatic tongues

Out in the silent world of
Watchful trees that mutter
Sugar-dipped names.

I will stay at a safe distance
Since leaves strike and cut
When eyes are closed.

Is my name sweetened by
The voice from the summer bark?

There is only one way to tell
And maybe the need lacks
Urgency that lies in the open.

While secrets are kept,
I'll still bleed.

My blood is glue
Boiling under roof tile skin,

Under the judgmental sun
Waiting for rain to come.

My house is the aftermath
Of heaven falling straight to hell,

The adhesive peels,
Revealing the mold that we breathe.

I am in need
Of renovations that will

Stake me down, down
And ready to settle.

No more plans, no more revisions,
Just one final teardown

And a newly found
Foundation

That will keep me grounded
And satiated.

Smoke me out if you want to.
There are plenty of other hills
That will welcome a sparrow
Within snug arms—
Bringing me weightless, ready
To share the sun.