Defeating
Elite
Four
Champions
In

Three

Minutes

She haunts my days
My thoughts float on her spirit
Living in the mirror.
The looking glass becomes her;
My dissipated identity cowers
In a morphed reflection she now owns.
I wasn’t prepared for this possession.
Slipping through the unseen gap,
Sliding in with the night breeze
My unknown twin has arrived
Setting up house in my soul.
Futile struggles to escape
Leave me walking backward
Sighing to accept my fate.
I want to embrace my twin
But I fear a deception
My eyes cant perceive.
Or is it my own likeness
I refuse to trust?
She has rocked my foundation,
Opened my vault to light
Blinding light overwhelming
All senses.
Repelled by my failures
Attracted by my nascent dreams
This haunting has enveloped me
Losing my will to resist
I am drawn to her reflection
My reflection.
Our reflection.

"Have you ever read the book "He's just not that into you"?" Is how this conversation started.
Within a matter of minutes my head had been slammed into the spinning door of consistent "he's just not that into you"'s.
But I can't help but hear your voice fill my head with fog, condensation of your velvet voice trapping me again with your sweet nothings. Sweet nothings that led me to believe you were into me.
My heart breaks at those words.
What made me so awful? Is the only question I can ask myself.
Once the question is posed I'm brought to my own personal court. Trying to defend myself from my brain mapping out all the wrong things I've done, all the things wrong with me. These are the reasons nobody loves you the prosecutor yells at me.
I have no more defense left.
The only answer is to slap on the handcuffs and accept that my heart is just not worth loving.

mommas don't dream their sons grow up to be writers.
but when you see the beauty in the trees in letters and words
time doesn't pass in seconds or years,
speech is with purpose, life becomes narrated.

i saw the most mediocre minds of my generation never pick up a pencil, brains hysterically naked.

mommas don't dream their sons grow up to be writers.
     they wake up eventually.

I wish I could sit on the edge of the Sun
Weave some rays together and cover you
With a blanket of light
So you wouldn't feel the need
To wrap yourself in darkness

I wish I could melt these words
Into a painting which ignites your smile
If not for an eternity then just a little while
You and me both know that the glow
Of tiny sparks is much more mesmerizing
Than the all consuming fire of sadness

When you look into my eyes
See past the shallow curtain
Formed by mundane thoughts
Know that the bright light
Shines for you

I glimpse the gaps between each finger,

Just waiting to be filled by another’s,

All that’s left to do is linger,

Before we find our “other”.


At times the emptiness consumes

The very hopes we hold,

A single, lonely vision looms,

And we fear what’s to unfold.


And yet, a single being was made,

To fill that empty void,

Harmony of our heart’s serenade,

Too strong to be destroyed


And through the tears, the hurt, the wait,

We grow stronger through the pain,

And when we find that linking fate,

We comprehend what there was to gain.


The gaps are filled, the void is gone,

Two hands intertwined as one,

They walk the path into the dawn,

As they watch the setting sun.

There's a problem that painters
and poets both have
living life full of feelings
requiring they have a strong salve

for their critics abound
claiming that they know all
providing discouragement
and causing a spirit to fall

these painters and poets
they bring us their art
there's no one way to see it
though an open mind is a start

we must learn to observe
finding what's there for us
instead of going off half cocked
and causing a fuss

a critique is opinion
we're all entitled to one
but to critique to be mean
ruins everyone's fun

So hard, it seems, to live your life
When your mind is in war with itself
One part of you, the popular, sweet one
While the other just sulks in the corner
A random thought makes you stay with people you know
While another makes you want to go mingle
You almost trip, make the same mistake again
But then someone comes up to remind you
You need not be like the other cookies
Some cookies are better when charred