No room for negative thought
when lungs swell
with salt air
and the sea stares
right back
with its millions
of glittery telling eyes.
Between smacks and crashes,
without a word
in its quiet calm,
it shows me just how small
my problems
truly are.

No matter the weather
or the nicks and dents
you’ll acquire without effort—
no matter how experiences—
the whole of them—
may short change you
into a thing
that you barely recognize—
don’t let that chin drop.

Everyone can see
the potential
in a heads up penny.

She is not folded in the crooks
of crooked grins
or enveloped in the yuks
that follow poorly executed jokes.
She pays no mind
as she singes the edges
of those brave enough
to approach her.
She spits on empathy
and disregards
the “what ifs” or “why nots.”
Rarely spoken aloud,
she is deafening
when confined to quiet corners,
and will lurk there,
unmentioned and unforgotten.

When permitted to surface,
she looks nothing like you’d expect—
badly disguised and undeniably
                        ugly,
with unforgiving features
that have been bent and twisted—
coated with
a sticky sugary sheen.
She demands to be considered,
as she slides, jagged and bitter,
off of the tongue
and into the light.

She’s always there,
regardless of any acknowledgement—
closer than we desired,
bigger than we imagined,
wiser than we hoped.
She, the *****
that we are forced
to shake hands with.

We pull ourselves tight
like the skin
of a drum head
so that when it hits us,
we do not break—

                                   we sing.

I want to live the kind of life
that looks gorgeous
in a rear view mirror.
A life riddled regretless--
full of curves and edgy paths
that I chose to leave behind.
If by chance I miss my turn
while reliving what's passed,
let them canonize me
the patron saint
of the wanderlust--
spelling out blessings
for the bored and anchored
with every speck
of my kicked up dust.

This one is for the old souls—
for the minds sustained on stories
and the lips that speak only
in combinations of words dusted
with jaw-tingling purpose.
For those who can find salvation
in a good bass line
and the disciples of that
aww sookie sookie now—
for the air guitarists
who will only ever make it big
going solo at a stoplight—
for the pairs of eyes
that can’t help but see things  
the way love is felt:
inexplicably with hungry fascination.
This one is for the old souls—
may the world always be
your zealous oyster,
producing enough pearls to fill
an Olympic-sized swimming pool,
and may you always be
brave enough to jump in
wearing only a smile.

I’m the smell on your skin
after you’ve felt the sun
for hours—
the ache in your belly
when you’ve laughed yourself
into a fit of warm tears—
the give of the lid
on a stubborn pickle jar—
the freedom felt
at one-hundred miles per hour.
I am all
of the subtle reminders
that life is beyond measure,
and that 'time' was just
a theory conjured up
by someone
who couldn’t stand
his own happiness.