I saw a man fly today
As he latched onto a last hope
A one way ticket to a land unknown
Didn’t care if he lost it all

I saw a man fly today
Thinking he was freedom bound
But he lost his grip and was earthbound
Strangers wept from the ground

I saw a man fly today
To our capital to give a speech
About a city that had been breached
By radicals who know no peace

I saw a man fly today
On a plane, vacation bound
And while his plane safely touches down
Millions of innocents cries resound

Starbucks generation
Stand in line
Heads down
Don’t make a sound
Get your venti iced whatever

I sit at Robert Frost Farm
On a bench so tall my feet can’t touch ground
I move them around and pretend I’m sitting on a cliff
But I’m surrounded by twigs
And dead yellow grass

It feels like spring but it looks like autumn
The trees are still bare and the landscape barren
Stripped down and beaten
Like a hollow survivor
Waiting for sunlight and just a little water

I sit here blindly like a silent on looker
I stare right through the tattered survivors
An old lady in the distance yells something friendly
But I can’t hear her so I stare and smile

Everyone wants to be a revolutionary,
a hero, a martyr, or more.
Empty minds seeking an empty prize,
of fame and boundless glory.

Everyone wants to be a wiseman,
without searching for the wisdom.
Everyone wants to break free,
from their phony societal prison.

Everyone wants to be loaded,
without having to earn the dough.
A tax or two will surely do,
those ***** capitalists will eat crow!

Everyone wants to change the world,
without having to change themselves.
Everyone wants everything,
except to be ourselves.

There’s a thick cloud of smoke inside my head
I’m trying to escape but I can’t find an exit
I cover my mouth but it finds a way in
The noxious fumes are all too familiar

They drift and they shift like a menacing shadow
They hang and weigh heavy like a man in the gallows
And the more I try to search from within
The more I begin to helplessly sink

A lost puppy
looking for a master
But I was, I was

I’m afraid of the dark
I hold my breathe when I’m alone at night
I feel its hand on my shoulder
Chilling as it grips tighter
With its knife to my throat, it tells me to run
Run around corners and past open doorways
Anywhere where it’s lurking about
Uncertainty is flourishing

I see shadows painted in paranoia
Stalk me while I walk to my car
Like bad memories and college debt
All through my life

Nothing else has this grip on my life
No addiction, no disease,
Only the darkness and its vice
Have such a control over me

I met a girl with all the love in the world,
But nowhere to lend it
She banks it away everyday
Dreaming of where to spend it

I learned a foreign language
It lives within my soul
I learned a foreign language
It filled a bottomless hole

I learned a foreign language
Carved it on my heart
I learned a foreign language
It gave me a fresh start

I learned a foreign language
It’s light as a feather
I learned a foreign language
It’s strength keeps us together

I learned a foreign language
You can learn it too
I learned a foreign language
It’s inside all of you

My lioness
golden and soft
soft as a silk woven dress
strong as an elegant lioness
I have adored you since your time began
and I will adore you till my time ends

Oh lioness
fair and so sweet
sweeter than any candy
I will never forget your face
aged for a lifetime but still the same
as the day I fell in love with your grace

My lioness
standing tall
on a rock in my backyard

My lioness
you are not far
you are always in my heart

I’ve been coasting down Granite State back roads
Twisting and winding
Intertwining with my thoughts
There’s an awful lot of road ****
Carnage in the streets
Bloodied and beaten to death
Memories so keen yet smeared
I breathe in
Cigar smoke slithers down my throat
I cough up a dead squirrel
It reeks of nostalgia
I pick up the corpse and toss is out of the car
Into a fire dancing across the road and up into the trees
I breathe in once more
Crisp, cool
But it burns
Fall always comes on so strong

When you try to be something you’re not
You get lost in the afterthought
Of who you’re trying to please

The pool in my backyard has turned green,
and not the kind of green you write poetry about.
It's not a vibrant, spring fling green,
but a murky and tiresome green.

It's not the kind of green you write poetry about,
for it doesn't flow freely in the breeze.
It does not represent freedom, nor nature,
or anything in between.

It's still, it's stagnant, it's gripping and mean,
a green you don't want growing in your heart,
a green that will consume and tear you apart,
a green you won't write poetry about.

My pool has turned a menacing green,
that rattles my brain and keeps me awake,
that floods my thoughts with each breathe I take,
and defiles my soul everyday.

My pool has turned an unforgettable green,
that rots and haunts all of my dreams.

Some people curl up in a ball
Do nothing with their life at all
I can’t imagine dying

Watch as their dreams go screaming past
Think they’ve got time but it won’t last
Watch their dreams dying

Shackled by their bloated will
With all the time in the world to ****
Every second’s dying

Hold me now but let me go
Push me when I’m moving slow
There’s no time for dying

Dreams are in each breath that we take
In each exhale and valuable mistake
Some rush out our outstretched fingertips
While others stay trapped behind dead eyes

All darkness surrounds her
Yet she illuminates
Her pale skin radiates
Like the pedals of a sunflower
Bleeding golden yellow under the pounding sun
She reaches for it, unwavering

I encroach on her radiance,
A black hand reaching out
Looking for someone to hold
But she welcomes me in
Warm and tender
A home for darkness in the light

I take a piece of her each day
Harvesting her happiness and joy
I wound her and try to put her pedals back on
She rages like a wildfire
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

Yet her love remains
Wild and untamed
Bursting through her chest like a herd of stallions
I cling to her side
Begging for forgiveness
But she’s already moved on
She’s again reaching for the sun

Sometimes I flip through picture albums,
to remember the days,
a familiar face.
They are kindling for my wavering fire,
anything to keep the flame alight.

Hot coals singe the ends of memories,
cauterize them before they bleed away.
What I would give,
to breathe that days air again.

The world is thinking about you today.
How you're doing,
where you are.
Are you happy?
Are you far?
The world is thinking about you today.

The world is thinking about you today.
Did you dream?
Did you crawl?
Through the muck and the mire?
Do you have it all?
The world is thinking about you today.

The world is thinking about you today.
Breathe it in, breathe it out.
Let the warm air fill your lungs,
let the fire burn like a thousand suns.

The world is thinking about you today.

The world goes black then comes back again
I drift in and out of consciousness as I scroll through the history of my life
Tearing out the pages like they tore out my heart
Savages just trying to survive
Burning them one by one
Just enough to keep the fire alive
Breathe in
Out
Cold
Warm
In
Out
In

Hold-

I used to watch Thomas the Tank Engine as a child,
now it's called Thomas the Train.

I have pictures with Thomas the Tank Engine,
not Thomas the Train.

I love Thomas the Tank Engine,
not Thomas the Train.

Why did they change it to Thomas the Train?

He's a tank engine...

He's Thomas the Tank Engine.

Breathe in,
hold-

I've been here...

Strength wavering,
push out...

hold-

Don't let it in,
don't let it through...

Breathe in,
out,
in,
hold-

Decrepit fingers pry,
into the absence of my mind.

Boney, lanky and cold,
with an after burn to melt your soul.

Breathe in,
hold-

let go...

I broke down and wept yesterday,
at the sight of my grandparents grave.
Clutched dead grass in my trembling hands,
ripped it from the haunted lands.

Every year, it comes and goes,
the days I hoped would never come.
They say it gets easier with time,
though each year, it's another mountain to climb.

But sometimes,
you realize,
it can't get much worse.

Sometimes,
you realize,
it doesn't always hurt.

I leave just like I always do,
struggling to bid them both adieu.
Rolling through the ghostly fields,
I wonder if it's all even real.

Another punch right in the gut,
leaves me fighting to get out of this rut.
Much like every day of my life,
filled with so much anger and strife.

But sometimes,
you realize,
it can't get much worse.

Sometimes,
you realize,
it doesn't always hurt.

And sometimes,
you realize,
it can't get anymore dead in a graveyard,
no matter how many black clouds roll by.
It can't get anymore dead in a graveyard,
no matter how many showers pour down.

It can't get anymore dead in a graveyard.

It can't get anymore dead in a graveyard.

It can't get anymore dead in a graveyard,
no matter how many people die.

O joyous world
for which I weep,
what splendid treats
you share with me.

For I've seen your
beauty in green mountain side,
or in soft blue skies as far as
my eyes reach.

I've been entranced by mirrored lakes
and natural silence.

I weep for the people
who will not see,
the elegance carved before me.

I weep for the world
encased in sin,
a concrete evil that shackles our will.

Where were you in Montréal,
when the heavens sang a disjointed chord,
a harmony both rich and poor,
where were you in Montréal?

Where were you in Montréal,
when we took a drag outside the bar,
and learned there's more to who we are,
where were you in Montréal?

Where were you in Montréal,
when the cobblestone path led us home,
despite our hearts begging to roam,
where were you in Montréal?

Where were you in Montréal,
when the sun rose like gentle tide,
like a warm blanket on a cold night,
where were you in Montréal?

Where were you in Montréal,
when we branded warm memories,
inside the souls of you and me,
where were you in Montréal?

I thought I'd take a walk today,
down the road,
around the block.
Detach myself,
go where I feel,
not where I think.

I found myself under dimly lit street lamps,
questioning the lamps ferocity.
Man strives for evolution,
and around me it stands,
a testament to our ferocity,
our everlasting battle to be better.
Yet it feels so limp,
a dim light like a wisp of wind.
Not a raging fire,
a lions roar.

How great are we really?
Are the edifice of our time a testament to our eminence?

I stare into the window of a home.
On the television,
damnation.
A preacher and a parishioner,
absorbing the rhetoric.

One might think nothing of it,
but everything has a motive.

As I round the bend,
I think to myself an old idiom,
"the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak".
Our evolution is stalled under the impression that these edifice represent progress.
Alas, our minds remain stale.
Thousands of years of blood,
greed and deceit,
rest under dimly lit street lamps,
unseen and ignored.

Sun perched in the trees,
why do you stare at me?
I’ve not sinned!
Sun perched in the trees,
why can’t you leave me be?
Rest already so I can breathe,
I’m barely standing,
on my knees.
Your piercing gaze,
jets through me.
You ******* sun,
let the night take thee.
A stain in the sky,
blistering high,
perched in the trees,
let me be!
I’ll trade you for anything,
even disease,
just bury yourself deep,
into stone and granite.
Settle behind cloudy seas,
burrow into hillsides if need be,
just avert your gaze,
sun perched in the trees.

Seasons come and gone,
grey ice fights the waves.
Sun stretches its arms,
its reach not far away.

Warm air pockets come,
cold air fights to maintain.
A steel grip on my soul,
but it slips away.

Sitting on stony earth,
the most comfortable I’ve been it weeks.

Hard ice gives away,
to soft embracing mud.
Wind whispers warm secrets,
of sweet summer love.

Holding out for hope,
the brighter future fades,
taken by the sound,
of an invasive plane.

Rainy nights thinking about Rwanda,
fog seeps out of the woods.
Like smoke, it crawls across the fields.
My head lights attempt to cut through it,
as it intensifies, inhibiting my drive,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I arrive at the Mobil,
wait five minutes for the cashier to notice I’m here.
When she does, she hobbles over.
I attempt to buy a pack of backwoods,
my card gets declined,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I get in my car,
and have a fit when I can’t find my keys,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I begin to drive,
get cut off and curse fellow man,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I ***** and I moan,
an entitled little ****,
but I’m alive,


which many can’t say after Rwanda.

I'm compartmentalizing my thoughts and delivering them to you on my tongue. Gift wrapped in a silver metallic paper, with a tiny pink bow on top that bounces jubilantly with every step I take. Waiting to be opened and heard, the gift sits on my tongue.

Sometimes no ears are lent so I swallow the thought and redigest it.  It falls into the black and finds itself trapped back in my head. It ricochets from wall to wall, eager to be released.

          One day I found out no one wants to listen.

So I bottle it all up, and the thoughts start getting crowded. I become scatter brained, my head hectic with inmates, jailed without a crime. They riot, burning me out each time. My head sizzles like road **** in the heavy heat.

                         It's time for a jailbreak!

I pick up a pen and release the inmates into my veins. They pump through me and fill me with life, violently pounding their way through my fatal heart. Once I channel their energy, they flow out my fingers, into the ink and onto the paper.

          They bleed as they're released, finally free,
singing the song of a man compartmentalizing his thoughts.

He who rides his horse
through the mountains of love
while spitting down on those
in the valley of seething hate
should be struck from his horse,
and cast down among them,
for he is no different.

Which should I eat,
salt or sulfur?
Both can **** me,
but one more quickly.
Life is precious,
but death befits thee.

If time is a trial,
then death acquits me.
So which will it be?
Salt or sulfur?

Fallen leaves scamper at my feet,
like a scourge of plagued rats.
Unlike the rats, they are welcome at my feet,
but much like the rats, they mean only death.
For they are the harbingers of a great fire that will sweep our lands,
red, orange, and yellow,
and will signal the turning of the seasons,
the coming of ice and frigid gales,
the feeling of death,
which will ravage my heart.

And in that moment, I was her.
It was like her conscious, her perception began expanding,
and ballooned, consuming everyone in the room,
as she sifted through the sepia toned pictures.
Suddenly time slowed and the waves outside got louder,
it drowned out all other noises except her voice,
hesitant to recall yet eager to reminisce,
as recollections of her past flashed before her eyes,
out of her mouth, and into my head,
where I could see them,
sepia toned, vivid, just like the pictures.

When I was absorbed I was hit by two tones,
one being the tone of sepia,
which soaked the memories splashed before me,
and the other being the tone of joyous death.
The sepia was the color of the pictures and the tone of the mood,
while joyous death was the joy we found in reminiscing the dead.

The waves washed away the memories when her voice ceased,
I returned to Earth as they exhaled their last trembling breath.

It's September 20th, 2017 and I'm driving down a rain soaked I-93 South on a cool Tuesday night, or maybe even a Wednesday morning. There's a concrete barricade to my right with tiny fluorescent reflectors every 4 feet to indicate I cannot turn right unless I want to die. I want to die but I'm obeying the tiny fluorescent reflectors. The road is coated with a still sheet of rain and looks like a long black cracking mirror laid out before me. The tiny fluorescent reflectors reflect off the mirrored road and dive deep into its jet black depth. They drag themselves deep down into the jet black road. They drag me down with them on September 20th, 2017. Deeper and deeper they drag me down.

I keep having dreams
that I'm swimming,
across vast murky pools
of my mud and blood and mystery,
swimming to hope
which I can see in the distance,
up in flames.
Worst part is,
I can't swim.

Today I saw my house burn to the ground when it flashed before my eyes while putting out a fire in the tenants bathroom downstairs.

Yesterday I thought about what it would be like to shoot myself in the head on the drive home.
I thought of it with no intent to actually harm myself,
but because I was thinking about how fast life goes.
Being born's like when you pull the trigger,
and when the bullet hits you, you die.
There's some time in between, but not much.
It's that fast.

Oh, the fire is gone,
my life crackles,
like the last embers.
Burning bright,
exploding high,
they glow and they dim and they die.
Their last life blows into the night,
and disappears as I lay asunder.
In my smoldering ruins,
I cry,
as my tears evaporate off my charcoal cheeks.
Covered in soot,
I fizzle and die.
Tomorrow,
my ashes will burn.

It's those long nights,
waiting for the sun to rise.
Waiting and praying,
for it to come a little quicker.
The black keeps getting blacker,
and I'm falling
out,
     out,
          out,
               and up.
Which will rise first?
The sun or my soul?

I can feel the pull,
a gentle tug with every shallow breath,
gentle but sharp.
Every word,
like a knife,
a little more pressure every time,
agonizingly slow.

Plunge it into my heart,
push it deeper,
push it all away.
These long nights,
I just wanna push,
and when it falls,
the moon from the sky,
so will I,
so will I.

Then the sun will rise,
and I'll be ****** to do it again.
I can feel a tug,
gentle but sharp.

All my life I've been looking for a shepherd,
someone to guide a broken soul.
But all I found was that I looked like a *****,
couldn't find someone who'd come close.

There were people who told me to take drugs,
some people said they'd be a home,
but when supports cracked and I got too heavy,
that's when I'd find myself alone.

Some days were grey and some bled colors,
some days I just couldn't stay warm.
Some days, insufferable, clouds hung heavy,
over my head, they stormed and stormed.

But I soaked it in,
so I could feel low,
so every time I tumbled,
I'd surely know,
that it can't get much worse than this,
that it can't get much worse than this,
that it can't get much worse than this.

All my life,
I've been looking at a *****,
but I am my shepherd,
I am my shepherd.

Heaps of metal and memories,
they tore my old school down today.
The echoes of our laughter once contained in the halls,
is now free to fly with the breeze,
and our aspirations and dreams may touch the sky.
For those in the dirt and those still alive,
whether friends of mine or distant minds,
though our memories flutter like butterflies,
they will always be in this heart of mine.

My heart is quicksand,
everything's sinking in.
I'm tangled in the wires I hardwired to my brain and I'm about to short circuit.
Yesterday,
I lost 4 poems in the wash,
washed away my memories,
like a wave crashing on the shore of my brain,
dragged away the footprints.
Maybe that's why I'm short circuiting,
water and electrical wires don't mix.
But here I am,
an electrical storm in my head,
untamed,
much like myself.
Contained,
in my head,
much like myself.

I scaled a mountain,
left much of myself along the way
in thickets and high water.
To reach the higher truth
and to see the path ahead,
and all its bountiful treasures,
I reached for the top.

When I finished my ascent
I found a Muse.
She called my name,
to which I answered,
                    "I have a long road ahead".
The Muse replied,
                    "What if the road ends here,
                                              and led you to me".

I laughed and looked to the horizon,

the rolling fields,

which were grey and bare.

Just because the climb
is insufferable and taxing,
does not mean
the summit is bountiful
and rich.
Sometimes the summit
is just the peak
of realization,
that there are many more challenges to scale.

Bells toll at noon
on a rainy Monday,
dread seeps through my pores,
into my bones.

I weep for
the creaking porch and chairs,
the gentle rock back and forth,
the crisp air.

At last I found my place,
but it is not here.

I woke up this morning to noises,
cars, a refrigerator, TV,
and I felt empty,
fear and dread poured into my empty shell.
I'm tired of listening to men who've read books,
books by men who read books,
by men who read books.
The monotonous drone of idealists,
arguing with idealists with ideas
by other idealists.
Unoriginal blabber
and outright lunacy,
telling the free man how to be chained,
blocking out sunlight,
restricting our branches.

A loon communes on the lake,
the lake is a tear drop on Mother Earth,
the ripples flow like glass being blown,
I am perched on my porch.
The loon cries once more,
I puff on my cigar,
the smoke shifts indecisively,
it moves much like the unchained around me,
free willed and wild.
I dream of being unchained.
My branches stretch out,
they yearn for the sun,
but heavy grey clouds hang on puppet strings.
Overcast and encumbered by responsibility,
they shroud the sun,
blanket it with regret and doubt.
I dream of being unchained.
I lower my branches and shout,
but no one hears,
my voice is chained.
The loon cries out,
it echoes unrestrained.

The world is very grey today,
black and blue cars pass me by.
Sporadic dirt patches blanket the ground,
the pure white snow,
a tainted brown,
and the sky,
a cold steel grey.
The world is very grey today,
and I don't really like it this way,
so I take out my brush,
and I stroke away,
but the world stays grey.
The world is very grey today,
so I sing a song and dance.
I jig and I jive,
I'm stayin' alive!
but the world isn't feeling my prance.
The world is very grey today,
so I smile from ear to ear.
My pearly whites shine,
but I can't illuminate,
this ugly old grey,
this color I hate.
The world is very grey today,
and I'm starting to realize,
it's not always a walk in a flower filled park,
sometimes it's just a grey day.

Known and unknown
Charted and uncharted
Land and sea
One built to the ocean line
The other untouched and free
One made with patterns
Design and corners
The other is shapeless
Natural and irregular
The free form border that washes to and fro
And goes deep as death
Yet holds more life than me
Untouched and unscathed
It can never be owned by man
And he who tries to make his mark
Will have it washed away with the sand

People don't understand what it means,
how it feels.
When you're laying in the rain,
they just don't understand.
Letting your face soak in the muddy grass,
they don't know how it feels.
Wanting to sink in,
be swallowed whole,
suffocate.
Your body is waiting but your mind is already there.
And when you finally sink,
you're back on the surface,
like Sisyphus,
pushing a big ****** boulder of regret and pain.

You're soakin' in the sun,
I'm sinking in the mud,
you've got Coppertone,
I've got blood.

That warm copper taste,
on the tip of your tongue,
man, it's electrifying.
Holding your breath,
hoping your head pops off.
Yeah, you're losing it,
we're losing it.
Or were we already lost?
I thought you knew me,
I thought I knew you.
You thought we were all the same,
but the sun doesn't touch us all.

You're soakin' in the sun,
I'm sinking in the mud,
you've got Coppertone,
I've got blood.

You're soakin' up the sun,
I'm sinking in the mud,
I'm sinking in the drunk,
I'm sinking in my blood.