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that sunshine smile
those enamored eyes
your devout disposition
to continue to rise

those hands in hands
your love-filled lands
your prayer that i
will not disband

that lengthy laugh
those fields of grass
the hope of home
coming back
Nov 2019 · 114
embodied lackluster
I step out my front door
and I meet the flood
He is everywhere and waiting
debating and contemplating
new ways to pressure me

I swim out to my car
and I've made it
the destination, far
and the flood is ready to pounce
"How can we squeeze out his every ounce?"

Relentless, he pushes down on me
Unceasing, he presses my heart
In the closed system
the blood in the ****** feedback loop
pulses and pushes boundaries
trying to escape my restricting veins

The flood breathes out
He centers his weight
on my ventricles, my veins
and I am stunned
unable to move
unable to think

A perfect juxtaposition
of stillness and movement

I try to move but the flood falls harder
I try to breathe but the water fills my lungs

I am beneath everything

The flood's name is expectation
it preys to break my faith and
It wins every time
And every time it wins
I breathe shorter
I breathe faster

My body aches
embodied lackluster
Aug 2019 · 91
Part of the journey
is feeling like what you are
doing is useless
Feb 2019 · 176
Because of you,
There is color.
The wind that wraps
'round the building
smells like life

There is sun
with vitamins
my pores are open to
and it's all because of you

There is life
and music in my ears
and so much to do
and it's all because of you

There is spring
in my step too
There is beauty
and it's all because of you

There is bliss
blessed and true.
That's all because of you
i took a break from writing in general
and maybe that break is over

this poem is about someone i'm enamored with
Nov 2018 · 268
she dreams about me
She dreams about me
Even when the reality
Stands in front of her
(and I go) blunting her

Brain full of large doses of toxins
Namely serotonin is boxed in
Her skull, leaking through eyes
She will always theorize

Romanticizing the next moment
What could it possibly be made of?
Doesn't see the chances are so thin,
Why I give her such a lame hug

My heart, stolen by Hebraic Italy
Hers, raptured; a martyr for me
Mine, 700 miles away
Hers, wishing I would stay

And positive pulls negative
Pulls positive pulls negative
And I am slain to go to Tally
And not give heed to her rally
There were hills on hills on hills
And desire that nonstop spills
Runs down my legs to the floor
Once strong legs now sore

There was sweat that built
And beauty that me killed
Slays me on the bed
Pillow encroached by my head

There were mountains and more
Traversing was most pleasant chore
Whose peaks were red and base white
Which were held by me all the night

And the mountains met my body
And I couldn't stop my lauding
Words broke out from my mouth
Then I visited the country south

That sheath, that wonderful invisible
That head on top so visible
The member to meet her
The man-defeater

There was a statue on the day bed
More beautifully sculpted than the David
She was a moment, a wonder, a blessing
A memory awaiting caressing

A photo beyond my description
Light made its prescription
To love and to cherish the treasure
That exceeds all possible measure
The swallows that return
Are limping when they fly
The swallows that were burned
Will limp 'til they die

And when they visit me
They pluck about my eyes,
Aiming for my lips
They miss them every time

Defectively, I lost my vision
So when I feel about the world
Looking for miraculous mission
I come up almost empty-handed

My hands are full of blood instead
Punctured from the sandbox trees
That I thought were oaks of red.
It was illusion and deception

By now,

The eyes should have healed
The lips should have pecked
The hands should have grasped
Onto whatever is coming next

That, too, is an illusion, a deception
But I am too blind to know
Nov 2018 · 214
I have found myself
Oh the naivete in my own eyes
Bursting with purpose
It's tangible, palpable
Like the jelly in a too-full sandwich

I am more me than yesterday
And the day before

I have lost parts
And rebuilt with the remainder
I have developed
And found fluid foundation

I was once both the crushing hand
And the cocoon within it
Now I am the blossomed
And the released

I've let go
And I have found myself
the original draft in English of my last poem
Oct 2018 · 376
me he encontrado
Que ingenuidad tenian mis ojos
Que brillaban con el propósito
Que fue tangible, abundoso
Como la fuga de un apósito

Hoy soy más de mí que ayer
Y incluso más que anteayer

He perdido partes de mí
Y con ellas he reedificado
Me he desarrolado aparte de tí
Y una base fluida he encontrado

Habia una vez en que yo era la mano que aplastaba
Y también era yo la larva que estuvo llevado
Pero ya no soy esa mariposa que se mataba
Ahora soy el florecido y el liberado

Me he soltado
Me he encontrado
tal vez publicaré la versión inglesa de esta poema
tal vez no
Aug 2018 · 174
too kind a metaphor
"summer slipping"
is too kind a metaphor

today she was ripped from me
written (or i guess thought of) on 8/17/18
Aug 2018 · 146
Is dancing
Is sidestepping
Is moving one's body
Is having something you want
Is being willing to give it away
Is congratulating a job well done
Is patience

But above all,
Teaching is dancing
this was the original idea behind the Spanish version of this poem, which can be found somewhere on my profile
Aug 2018 · 148
The scariest number
Screams to be spoken
If spoken, it lives

Is prophecy

it thrills me
And terrifies alike
Aug 2018 · 118
Summer Slipping
You're May
You're slipping away

You're sand
Falling through my hand

That slippery June
Went away too soon

Now July
Threatens to die

Agonizing August,
Is by far the shortest,

Two weeks in two lines
Too weak to see the signs

You are going away too
To the north, you

Stopped my heart
More than any other summer part.

I cannot let you go,
and I will not
Aug 2018 · 99
ella, la bella
No hay nadie más bella
Que ella

Eso, puedo verificar yo
Porque puedo experimentarlo

Su belleza es bastante
Eso es lo más importante

Ya tiene un nombre perfecto en realidad
Aunque su relación con belleza es una casualidad
Aug 2018 · 819
Roman Writes
“People talk so recklessly when they talk about other people,”
Roman said,
talking about someone else.

He placed his coffee on the table
and continued his convoluted thought,
“There is a finite amount of space in our brains,
and I just think that we need to be more responsible
with what we fill it with.

We could be meditating on peace and love,
but instead we cease thinking
the second we start talking about other people.”

“Do you really think that’s true?”
his interlocutor challenged,
“I mean,
it’s not like I’m actively harming anyone
by opening my mouth.
Speech is only harmful to people
when they let it be harmful to them.”

“Are your nerves to blame, then,
for the pain you feel when I punch you in the arm?”
Roman responded,

"Is your skin left with any other option but to separate
when someone marries a blade to your stomach?

Words are weapons, Friend,
and until you understand that,
I’m not sure you know what love is.”

“Words as weapons makes for bullet holes in everyone.
How am I to speak at all if I am paralyzed,
scared of speaking?”

“Words are wonder, too, Friend.
And until you understand that,
I’m not sure you know what love is.”

“Words as wonder might make them complicit.
How am I to speak at all if I am to paralyze them,
lackadaisical and lazy?”

“Affirmation does not inspire apathy.
Wonder inspires movement.
Wonderful words are seeds in a garden in the first place.
Love grows from the water that is the act of listening.”

“Words as affirmation might make them think
they are loved the way they are,
needless to change."

said Roman
just an experiment with two people: a privileged guy named Roman and a nameless interlocutor
Aug 2018 · 126
First He, Then I
The one in front of me,
Speaks in fluent Christianese
And I listen
And fall back into that dialect of antiquity

The atheist in front of him,
Speak in tune
And he nods
And accepts the façade I’ve presented

The former and the current,
Barely communicate
Through a thick layer
Of exclusivity
Aug 2018 · 111
el baile mío
Jul 2018 · 172
It wells
It welled!
then receded
Then again
It welled!
And it felt
Like "my heart's on fire"

We are wired together
And we become tired together
And we find flame together
And become lame together

We are mates of the soul variety
Destined to cross paths, why are we
Able to deny that destiny?
When I can so easily rest in thee

We have and
It welled!
Like a spring unable to contain itself

Make me feel this way
The way the heavens must have felt
When they finally met the earth
Feeling deeply and giving birth
To their eternal partnership

It wells
It recedes
It ebbs
It flows

Too young to know
If the flowing and the ebbing
Let something else

This third thing
This us
(There are our actions)
Then there is us

Will we persist;
Jul 2018 · 809
Oh, heart
I am skeptical of you
How do I trust an *****
That's been so wrong
In times past?

You devil,
Reaching out to hold the hand of a new lover
When you haven't let go of the past

It took a long, long time
But I learned how to turn you off
And now that you're on standby
I don't know if I can trust you

Battered by baggage
Beaten to the bone,
Do your nerves still work?

Are you able to discern the inner workings
Of the paramour's heart?
Are we compatible?
Are we in love?

Are we loving each other?
Are you able to be trusted
With our great future?
Jul 2018 · 349
I'm a big Spanish mistake
I'm a big Spanish mistake
And sometimes I'm just a mistake
Sometimes I am so burdened with the imposition of others upon me
Sometimes I simply cannot see
Past all of my shortcomings

They break down a flimsy wall, built up by the absence of harm
And then when harm happens,
The walls come tumbling down, and you are left seeing a version of me
That I don't want anyone to see

Much less the entire world
Much less the eyes I look into at my job
Much less the students I try to help as if I'm not an idiot

I am my mistakes
We are inseparable
And once I lose them, and I learn how not to make them,
I can help others who used to make those mistakes
And use that grace I so sorely needed when I made them
Because you can't leave the world with the mess that you found it in
You have to make it better

You can't expect everyone to be a teacher
You can't expect everyone to be a good teacher
Even though everyone should have grace

Just keep telling yourself it'll eventually get better
And it will
Either by happenstance or supplication, it'll just happen.

It's easy to forget how far I've come
Sitting here in a place I've driven to,
In a car I've purchased,
With a license I've earned
With a job I've kept for 7 years,
Writing on a computer I've bought with my own money,
Writing in a language that I didn't learn when I was a child

I'm not just my mistakes,
I am my successes
And I'm how they are handled
And I'm How I handle them
And I am how I handle my failures as well. (as well as my successes)
And yet

I'm neither
I'm somehow expected to be this third, emergent thing:

And perhaps that is what it is to be human

To be encompassed by one's failures,
So helplessly encompassed by them
So terribly encompassed by them,
As well as our successes

I am a collection of the two
Yet neither
i have a really hard time dealing with ******* up, maybe you can relate.
Look to the person on your left
And to the person on your right
And pull out your phone, and look at yourself through the reflection of your screen

Each one of you has been affected by toxic masculinity

If you looked and saw a woman,
You saw a victim, someone
Who's been tied down and told what to do
To stand in the kitchen and do the dishes
While the man stays in the other room with the TV
And has an affair with the sofa

I hear the two of them are happily married now,
In fact, the couch and the man are inseparable

The man becomes the couch, and the couch becomes the man
defiling that once holy entrance to that place you used to be able to call a home

When you were younger, you couldn't have known what the world would tell you you are
But now that you've grown up, you felt the pains and gained the scars
Now you know where the world wants you, and what role you play
On this stage, where the director's decrepit creaking hands come and defile you,
You holy sacred place.

He sits there and pays no attention to the hardwork going on adjacent to him
His thoughts are confined to whatever pretty colors and captivating sounds float across that screen
His eye lids shut only to keep from having a drought because he does not contemplate
He just sits there and waits for you to be done making his dinner for him

And what if he's working in the other room, and you can't see it, is there some sort of redemption for this man?
I cannot say, but he cannot expect to stand to the side of his life, pretending he has no emotions, teaching his sons that this is acceptable behavior,

Stop sinking into oblivion!

And when the woman speaks up and expresses these buried emotions, hurt ones, she is antagonized, like
Isn't this just another ***** with her crazy feelings?
Like shouldn't she be watching so that the chicken doesn't burn on the stove?
Like what happens if I let my guard down and let her in
And acknowledge that she is a human being?

The man says he can't do that
He can't lose his power in the situation
So he tells her those feelings she has are invalid
He makes her feel like the antagonist of the story of this man's life
And the only reason she stays with him is because she's developed Stockholm syndrome
And she doesn't want to be alone
And because if she's heterosexual, this version of a human being is the only one that's so readily available to her,
The kind that treats her like garbage, disposable, unable to have her damnable emotions redeemed

But a critique of something doesn't merit doubling down on that ideology you grew up with,
It merits its changing

Men in the room, hear me now

You are victims too!

You are told to keep it in, keep the tears back
To stand up straight, to provide, to not show any weakness,
But you are most strong when you acknowledge those weaknesses openly
And possibly discover that some of them aren't even weaknesses
They're just a part of being human

And this trend is so hard to break, so hard to crack through stone that was laid 22,000 years ago
But here we are
The buck can stop with us

We can stop antagonizing
We can start acknowledging
We can stop treating people as subhuman when they express emotion
We can start skipping in the streets and holding each other's hands

Because there's nothing masculine
About treating other humans like ****

We can eventually reclaim that word, but first it has to be exposed for all the harm it's done

Look to your right
Now look to your left
And look at your phone again

Each of one you can be a part of the solution
Not a part of the propagation of bad myths
This is the script to another talk poem that I wrote but never published.
Jul 2018 · 336
It's easy
To conflate
being in love
being happy

The latter so
Often eludes me
But I fall in love
Almost every week

Which is greater?
The love
The joy?


The two muses
Make residence
At the same time

And they leave me
In the same way

I'm either happy
And in love
Or depressed
And lonely

So, yes, it's easy
To conflate the two, yet
I fall in love with you
All the more
Written 6/21/18
Jul 2018 · 102
why i do what i do
I’m anthony brandy
And I’m a quarter filipino
Or at least, that’s what my dad tells me
And I’m inclined to believe him because
When I look at the curvature
Of the bones around our eyes
I think I can see it

That somewhere deep down I’m not just a white guy
With a white name
And a whole lot of privilege that comes along with that
But you can’t see it,
And I think that’s what matters

We judge people by who we see they are
And then they become who we say they are

You can’t see it, but I speak Spanish, too
But not because it’s my heritage
Because my white heritage doesn’t have anything to be proud of

I learned Spanish to communicate with others

It all started out as a way to check if people were talking behind my back
And I never even realized that that was a form of guilt-presumption
But as I learned to conjugate and put my words in the right order,
I found out that there are people on the other side of that language barrier
And they have warmer hearts than you could ever imagine
And their arms give the best hugs
And their eyes tell the toughest stories to hear

Like when they came over here, and people heard their accents
They were teased and told to go back to where they came from
And everytime an ******* said that to them,
That home they were told to go back to was always Mexico
Even though Mexico’s not the only country south of Texas

You see, we judge by what we see
And if we’ve never seen or noticed anyone from other countries
We overgeneralize

You can’t see it, but I’m also encumbered by years of religious restrictions
That tell me that my ****** feelings are not allowed
That my doubts have no place near my faith
That my eyes must always bounce
That my vocal cords were meant only for ****** Hillsong songs
And my hands were made to pluck easy four-chord songs
And three-chord songs if you’re lucky

You can’t see it, but there is resentment under this shirt, welling in my chest
And it seeps out of my skin even when I don’t want it to
And I sometimes think it’s best left unexpressed,
But I know, even deeper down than that resentment, that that’s not true

You can’t see it, but I so often feel unnoticed by my peers and my family
Because those doubts that I mentioned before are dangerous,
And my family has wasted no opportunity to tell me that it’s not okay to be who I am,
Having introduced dynamism to my faith
So I am left with only one option:
To hide those things, and keep my mouth shut

What you don’t know, family member, is that when you put on that bumper sticker that said God doesn’t believe in atheists,
You told me you don’t care for me
And what you don’t know, family member, is that when you voted for Trump,
You told my immigrant friends that they should stay away, and that it’s better for them to dwell in their oppression than to even remotely acknowledge it
And what you don’t know, family member, when you tell me how sad it would be for me not to be a Christian,
You tell me it’s not okay to be who I am

But nevertheless, I am who I am
And I will be what I will be
And who I am is a quarter Filipino, privileged white guy who’s trying to do his part
And I wish you could come along with me for that journey
But you are so deeply invested in remaining static,
That I am unsure I can ever help you at all

Telling you stories about my relationships with immigrants can only get me so far into showing you that these people
Are in fact people
And my college education can only get me so far into a conversation with you before you notice that I’m one of those people you call a “libtard”
And you disregard everything I say

I still have my foot in the door, but how long can I keep it open?
When will I blow my cover and be authentic?
Should I have ever kept things a secret in the first place?
Am I just trying to avert inevitable growing pains?

I could not tell you, and I cannot either
But I am nonetheless growing,
Laden with doubts,
And struggling to make something good come out of my life
I hope you can see that
I hope you can understand
Why I do what I do
This is the script for a talk poem i wrote earlier this summer.
Jul 2018 · 85
the artifice
Where is that artifice
I’ve become so well-acquainted with?
Is it under the brassiere?
Is it anywhere near?

Or does it simply not exist?
Making you the leviathan:
That fabled love, mythical,
Sequestering the cynical

It’s too easy to give in
And admit that you’re here
It’s easier to hold you at arm’s length
And make that potential disappear

But the artifice has forced its way
To the other side of eternity
And I can’t find a trace of it in you

Is it a dream
Is our sight
Eclipsed by our desires

Are you a trick

Do you exist in reality

As much as in my thoughts?

Am I artificial?
Do I put on smiles to make you smile?
Am I anything besides what my emotions tell me I’ll be on any given day?

Where is my free will?
It eludes me just as much as your existence does
And your beauty
And the brunette spiral staircase spring
Released to the right of your eyes
Which shine hazel and splattered green
As if they were their own galaxies
And my destiny as Captain Kirk is finally realized
And I discover the wonder in those nebulae

You are real

But I do not know how to accept that
And begin being present with you

Perhaps the problem is
That we’re not all there is

Love, ***, and eros
Accumulate but one section of life
And I am in no position to deny the rest

I love life
And I’m willing to think I love you
In that headband that’s bright blue
I do not know what to do with you

Love is a fitting fate for people like you
You are precious
And able to be loved
And that's the role I play
Jun 2018 · 153
Not done with you yet
I parked
Rolled the window up
Turned her off
Got out
Patted her
"Job well done"
And I affirm her
"I'm not done with you yet"
As I roll up the other window
We live to drive another day
See the southern side of Florida
Just you and me,
It's taken me a long time to end up writing a poem about my car but here u go
Jun 2018 · 135
The things
That used
To make
Worth doing
Jun 2018 · 128
It's not about the fish
Or three days in a stomach
It's about forgiveness
May 2018 · 150
We are always the hero
Of our own story
Blind to the pain we inflict
Unable to see beyond the scope
Of our two limited eyes
Not sure if this is a mantra or something else,  but this is the only thought I could come up with

Also I normally love titles
But I couldn't think of one
May 2018 · 222
Another mantra continued
Do you remember when this town belonged to you?
I do

But things aren't what they were

And what's the point of droning about this point?

What have you got to mourn?

The idea in your head
Of the people you left
When you went two hours away
And where they had to stay

You just don't know what to do with yourself
And your feelings,
But that's not new

Rest easy
Be still
And know
Things are gonna be okay

Even if the job *****
Even if the average age of the town you live in is 67
Even if it takes a while to get back into the flow
Even if the flow isn't what you want in life

It's where you are
And it's your job to affirm that position

Because it's all poetry
And it all belongs
If memory serves me well, and it normally doesn't, this is an iteration of my earlier poem "Mantra (one)", written about a year ago today.
Apr 2018 · 682
how to build a myth
talk about it, talk about it, talk about it
and when you're done talking about it
talk about it some more

"but what do you do with the ashes
from the myth you burnt down yesteryear?"

irrelevant. its scorch marks will eventually heal
in the meantime,

talk about it, talk about it, talk about it
and when you're done talking about it,
buy her flowers

and convince yourself
that the color of the flowers
will communicate the love you have for her

"but the love doesn't exist, in fact
love is a matter of pair-bonding
and consistent vicinity"

you are so right! but just because you know
how love works biologically
doesn't mean you have to live in solitude

which you have been for so long,
but let up, and refer to my first instructions,

talk about it, talk about it, talk about it
because language creates reality
just as much as it describes it

and when you're done talking about it,
buy her coffee in the starbucks
and talk to her about those real feelings

inside you, and maybe they're inside her too
but you don't, won't know unless you
talk about it, talk about it, talk about it

and once the myth is built, the greek prophecy
will prove true, believe you me:

you will feel again
you will love again
you will die again,
you will live again

and when you doubt again,
talk about it, talk about it, talk about it
with her friends, your friends, and your family

because feelings that are corroborated
are somehow more real than those
that are hidden
Apr 2018 · 224
mantra six
feelings that are corroborated
are somehow more real
than those that are hidden
Apr 2018 · 123
Mantra Five
Consider the possibility
That your 4.0 GPA
Is the result of your failing mental health
And inability to accept yourself

Consider, for once,
That you are valuable innately
Regardless of approval

I see your deepest fears
And they're not you
And they don't define you

You are not the terrible feeling
Or the words you tell yourself
When you read that ****** grade

You're also not those butterflies
When they look you in the eyes
And tell you you're valuable

You just are

By yourself

Stop selling
To the words
Others say

And when you feel that way
That's not where you have to stay

Listen to that 7th track on that old album
Even if its theology is ****** and shameful
You know what it meant to you when you were young

And when you feel that way
Stand in front of a mirror and say

"I am worth more
than others' estimation of me"

Because that is the real root of the root
That is the true bud of the bud

That you are valuable regardless
Of whether you have a witness

And even if you were the tree falling
Free falling in a wood
Your lumber still makes homes
You leaves still make paper
Your heart still has value

Apr 2018 · 246
verano terminado
Extraño los olores del verano
Antes de su fin temprano

El champú impregnando mi carro
Camino a la iglesia, vamos,

No sonrías todo el rato
No será muy largo

Veo asomar tu sonrisa
Sí, tienes razón, chiquita

Si, hay algo,
O, ¿me habré equivocado?

Pero se detuvo, sin embargo
(Como nosotros), el verano
this is a translation of my poem "summer smells"
Apr 2018 · 160
a veces
i clothe my words
in spanish dresses
to build bridges
some can't cross
i love love love being bilingual
Apr 2018 · 192
The drive shaft
"Hear that sound? That's the drive shaft"
Rather, it's a life raft
That you and your wife are flouting
What's that about, the silence shouting?

When is something dead?
Do you know it in your head?
Your mind? Something left behind?
Perhaps if we could just rewind
We'd find the answer

Love, laughter, principally pain,
Are all consequences of the insane
Its archaic definition we all know
But never googled, so we don't really know

Shouting silence, so deafening in the car
Past the idiots and the ******* traveling far
To our right and our left, you
Keep critizing til we've all left you

All on the precipice of that becoming
Me, your wife, your children, yourself
We're all left with that one thing:
Watching you in your hell

But there's no writhing, just acceptance
No attempting to better, just acceptance
No trying of any kind, just complacent
No emotions being expressed, just complacent

How is anything real to you?
Where is your baseline?
Can love be real to you?
Can it be experienced at the same time

As nonexistence and complacency?
Is there anything in between
Those two terrible extremes?
It's where his life is to be

And his wife and their marriage as it dies
In the car ride to the son's house with their other son behind
The driver seat where the driver shaft yells out
And speaks louder than either of your marital doubts
No notes. Just interpret however you like.
lover of love's long lost history
you are so intrinsically dear to me
and i know you can hear the beat
when our hands go blistering

i love the neapolitan but not naples
listen to how the city sings like the others
but she buys time and barely bothers
to remove her appropriating staples

she is a reflection
of a reflection
of a reflection
of a reflection

but you, my dear neapolitans,

how holistically human you happen to be
and what a human thing to do
to braid oneself with a few
ventricles of other hearts unseen

you are not special insofar as you are human
and the home you make mistakes you
for a permanent resident, assumes you
are a planted person whose sole purpose is bloomin

but you are dynamic, not static
you do not live in someone's attic
you move around, the ground beneath you
isn't bequeathed to staying beneath you,


keep moving and loving and all of the aboving
because our love isn't something
that can be taken away by a location change
or how 21,000 hearts are arranged
this is just a love letter to the people in my hometown. i hope you enjoy
Apr 2018 · 105
to do list
get a bachelor's degree
maintaining relationships
making new friends
eating healthy
pursuing music
sleeping enough
adventuring with your new friends
keeping your cool
not hating yourself
maintaining a blog
writing poetry
writing music
investing in community
going home for the weekend
gaining experience as a tutor
not dying

it's wild
but you
can do it

just find the balance
just need a breather is all
Mar 2018 · 138
You beckon me
Just as I depart, you beckon me
Essentially, all we are is
Separated, detached in more ways than one
"Stop romanticizing" I used to chant
It didn't make a difference
Couldn't quell a fire
As strong as this

Just as I object, you charm me,
Engage me with fervor
Still I wonder if the objections will ever
Stop you from your profession.
Is it not clear to you?
Couldn't be clearer
A fire such as this

Just as we embrace, we leave each other
Endlessly fleeing each other, but
Still burns the flame
Still seeps through my eyes to yours,
Imperfectly interdigitating
Can you feel it?
A love such as this
Mar 2018 · 113
Two strangers
Two strangers sit down to have coffee
"What was immersion like?"
One said to the other

A charmed smile sprung on the recipient
As if it's a call back, a reminder of when they weren't strangers.
If such a time ever existed

During coffee,
The strangers talked
about safe things
Non inflammatory things

And then the strangers got up and went to work
One taking the north exit on 41
The other, the south

And the strangeness about them was always there
Even when they convinced themselves it wasn't
And the strangeness about them remained there
Even after meeting again
This is written in the same style as my other poem "Dichotomous", which I very much like. It's almost a continuation of the story, or perhaps a retelling thereof.
Mar 2018 · 104
summer stopping
I miss the summer smells
Before the salacious stopping

Shampoo rising in my car
On the way to church, smalls

Stop smiling
It won’t go on for long

Smile seeping
You’re not wrong

There’s something there
Isn’t there?

But summer, like us
today, a smell somewhere at school reminded me of last summer, so i wrote this in class
Mar 2018 · 116
The Club (explicit)
He said, "if the girlies don't work out"
To come back here

And get **** faced

And maybe watch some bad movies
Like Predator 2

Past security, ticket given without a second glance
It could've been any old white piece of paper

But he didn't check.
Why wouldn't he check?

Inside are the real predators
The real commodifiers

Who stalk prey called women
Look at the way they look at you

Do you notice the way they look at you?
Or is it like breathing air, or a fish in water

And do you buy into the predator's worldview?
What do you really see when you look at the self?

Only what others see, perhaps?
I understand that

In the car, on the ride here
He said, "I'm looking for something special"

"I don't **** and get out"
But definitely don't stop calling them *******

The culture says who they are,
Rather, the culture says what they are

You are complicit in the culture
Just like me

A stoic face toward oppressors
Is still complacent

A face that prides itself on not objectifying women
Yet lays silent in their objectification,

Isn't he just the problem?
Aren't I that problem?

And the songs that are as unspecial as the ***
You purport to not want

Boom louder than your heartbeat
That you can't tell if it's the bass or the blood

Pulsing through your veins

How do you know what you want isn't real?
Are you oblivious to the remake, the unoriginality?

Like the songs stolen without rights,
You adopt your predecessors' predatory propensities

It's all *******.
That's what our glasses are full with.

The Irish drink to connect
We drink to waste away

The same way we do when we sit
And become one with our couch

At the heart of the Ire-land
Is a history of conflict

And inability to have conflict,
Also known as: war

So they sit and they drink
And they talk and they fight

And they all have bad livers
But their hearts aren't clogged.

But back in the club, there's a one size fits all video
Playing over the one size fits all songs

Catered to the one size fits all people
And our one size fits all pallets

In the blur of the headbanging and the deafening
We lose our precious individuality

But maybe I'm acting too pious to judge as I do
But, if you were in my shoes, wouldn't you?
I went to a club this one time. Lemme tell u about it.

Another shout out to Peter Rollins for the part about war being the inability to have conflict. I wish we could all drink like the Irish.
Eating is such a chore
But health dictates that I eat

There is certainly nothing sacred about it
Just mass being converted to energy, right?

That's how it feels too often
It's easy to forget the evolutionary feat

That is you

And what about breathing?
Isn't it routine enough to just forget?

But the unconscious action can be interrupted
With just one phrase:

"You are now manually breathing"

Did you notice that? Once you start,
It's hard to remember how to stop

Yet breath is so essential
Essential enough to forget

As is to eat. And what a chore health is.
But the Good Life dictates it

So I breathe...
So I eat...
I wrote this by hand, which I don't normally do. My poetry is descriptive in nature, not prescriptive. Keep that in mind while ya read, porfa.
Mar 2018 · 106
Our Answers
I hate how comfortable we get
With our answers

And evolution never taught us to change
Only to find what works
And remain

And our wiring seeks fit-in-ness
Not the truth

Seeks complacency
Not philosophy

I wanted everything to be wrapped tightly in a nice bow:
A closing chapter in my life,
Let be where it used to be

I never accounted for a reckoning

And I never felt much guilt

But I should have been expecting it
Mar 2018 · 250
'Tis now or never
Sing, poet Presley! for you are right
'Tis now or never to hold them tight

'Tis now that the heart acts like a wild animal
Trying to break out of its tired cage

'Tis now or never to seize and kiss
Or let ferment and age

'Tis this fleeting moment, passing so swift
That yet paralyzes and perilyzes me

'Tis this, to be enamored with you
And to hold you at a distance

'Tis for distance sake, as we are both
Fur and far apart

But quell your aching heart
For now is not opportune

Neither philosophy nor location
Are terribly in tune

And whether congruency is even possible
For someone like me

Is largely irrelevant for us.
For my lips beg for your lips' touch

So, poet Presley; first name Elvis,
Have we passed into the future,

making now the past?
Do we live in the never?

Why negate when such a strong feeling
Wells within me?

When it could just as easily
Be stored for them later.

Are not things worth waiting for
Worth waiting for?
who has two thumbs and remembers how to write romantic poetry

(this guy)
Mar 2018 · 204
To insist instead of exist
Close enough to kiss
Well enough to love

Let that thought insist
And float right above

Two could be lovers
Two would be lovers

Still left with that feeling
That repeating fleeting

Goes seeping through
My eyes to you

Who speaks first?
Who delves last?

Who digs up
Decrepit past?

Who lays these



Shout out to Peter Rollins and pyrotheology
Feb 2018 · 247
An Inescapable Right Now
He turned to me and said, "It just creeps up on you, the way it creeps up on you."
12 hours into your day, you feel inadequate and less than death
And I understood this, so I nodded my head in his direction

"I built up my entire identity"
On many singular things

And it's just so hard right now
"To identify who I am"

Under all this skin "and bone
And a too-caffeinated" heart

Pumping blood so loudly
I'm unable to hear myself


And the gray "floods over me"
And I forget what it is to have color

What these cones in my eyes
Were really meant to perceive

And as if there is something able to be discerned by human minds
I turned to him and said, "I know so little about this world
And how it works, but I do know the meant to be"

And "you are not" that grayness
Penetrating your skin, bleeding through your clothes

"And" those eyes that used to shine hazel
Because it's "not what" you're meant to be

It's not who you are "forever"
It is an inescapable "right now"

And those words are too silly and cliché
For me to employ in a real way

So I use them ironically
Knowing that a cliché is a cliché

Because it was able to communicate
At its core some sort of truth

So people repeated it, as if
Repeating by itself creates truth

And at that moment we both realized that each other's eyes
Were brown and blinking in tandem and I could see it  
In both of our eyes a burning question

"Why do we let people affect us this way?"

As if we have a choice
Feb 2018 · 209
Depression in '18
Indistinguishable from the bed on which I lay
Or is it lie?

Am opening my eyes to see the light of day
But only after night

And the mucus seals my eyelids shut
And I have to ask

Did I ever wake up in the first place?
As a drone droning (, I)

In a cubic room with plenty of nothing
In an unknown town (, I)

And forget the glorious hustle
For which I groan

Eyes shut and bleeding from a screen
The Netflix streaming (, I'm)

Of being elsewhere, like a home, or the like
Having passion so closely
To me

But I'm acquainted with neither the past
Nor the present night,

Exist somewhere in between
Feb 2018 · 160
Never Home
As guilty as I am, I guiltlessly tell you that I miss you
You're never home, but hey, neither am I
Your freedom is important to you, and I want to understand that, but I can't say that I already do  

Now I have this aching, this urge, this itch, this feeling, that screams at me I have to appreciate you
And now when I try to do just that, you run away from the house which we used to live in

I hurt you whenever I pursued Romance
And that was wrought with a lack of understanding from both of us

And now here we are, standing so far away from each other, yet only a couple miles removed,
and I don't know who
or where
or what
you are anymore

You remember when we would love poetry together?
Do you remember the feelings we had and the solidarity
I remember feeling like you losing your faith was the worst thing that could happen to both of us,  

and then it happened to me

I remember fostering our relationship by going to a church which only you go to now
I miss when we talked about doing drugs in the abstract, never actually doing them
I miss when I could tell you about Romance, and you would listen

I miss sharing my whole self with you
I miss sharing any of myself with you
probably written 8-10-17
also, meh(?)
Jan 2018 · 162
Thin, white, and a golden rose watch
Diagonally across, I sit and watch
The perhaps brilliant musings of a blonde determined to be studious
And ask only the best questions, of what do I do with this
Beautiful pony tail wrapped piece of gold
Who is no more an object than she is decrepit old
And if at one time she'd look and see this poem I write in her presence
Would she deny it like daggers or receive it like presents?

I do not know, and isn't that the whole point?
To not know, to keep the mystery in joint,
The one I have as close to me as my knuckles
And an Erosical conjecture that buckles
And heaves as if to tell me that it's not right
To sit and watch the watch to my right

Yet this conjecture is as valid as it is fruitless
Just an inflection as invalid as she is cuteless
But the cuteness still doesn't inspire me
To inhale holiness and ask the dreaded why are we
Sitting so terribly far apart, my Heart,
When we could be together a beautiful piece of art?
Lyrical, whimsical, and terribly romantic. A library poem.
Jan 2018 · 150
Whatever thing existed
That merited that first dubbing of that word
Your long black curls are it
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