Today I saw a man
Deleting photos of himself and a woman
From his phone
He was a very large man
Strong, it was clear
But his fingers shook.

cant do right for doing wrong
been caught short for far too long
repeatedly beaten down for being proud
refusing to play along
thats the weakness in being strong

I don't like when men
Make women uncomfortable.
As an observer,
I've little confidence to step in
But I see so often
These women can handle things.
One such man
(You know the type all too well)
Shouted a complimentary obscenity
At two women who glared back
With a heat that scorched even me
On the train a few seats away
They seared holes in the man
As he scurried away
Then they laughed
And kissed eachother.

Put down your bottle
Drink some fresh air
You can't conjure hell
If you're already there
Stop sipping confidence
This ichor wears out
It empties anxieties
Then fills you with doubt.

Imagine how many people
Have fallen temporarily in love with you
On the train
On the street
In the car
In your room
Or after you'd fallen in love with them.

through lifes long list of lost loves repeating
the only lesson ive learned
is that it has to be fleeting
for it to return

Nothing would make me happier
than if I were purely selfless,
but then I'd be happiest
and I'd have only served myself.

Today I caught myself watching the clock, tirelessly counting
seconds, minutes, and moments; for in that short time it was clear,
I am here.
But how much of me?
The blood coursing through my veins, feeding my flesh,
feels thick and real; but is it just a projection, my perception
of BEING?
Could it be that my outward senses are nothing more than
a coping mechanism, a tether if you will,
meant to keep my mind still and my body grounded?
When released from my dermal prison, will my consciousness escape me,
or will it rise up free with no boundary?

Perhaps we are sturdy and real, something I can feel,
something to grasp.
Or, perchance, we’re merely a cloud of energized matter, buzzing madly
through time and through space.
An imaginary face, nothing more.
Although the latter leaves a bittersweet taste on my fictitious tongue,
now to me it is clear. This isn’t so much a poem about
Clarity,
as it is a poem about questions.
Question.
Because if the cold ceased to bite, and the bee never stung,
would I be someTHING, or would I be someONE?

When you feel like the world is  crashing only to realize it is just your world
It  finally dawns on you ,reality behold.
Masking how you feel just to avoid the most common lie “l am fine”
When you really just mean help me ,should be a sign .
Knowing you should just confine .
So you put on a fake pretence of some kind.
hoping one day you will wake from the illusion you have created .