in my house there’s a restroom
it has a toilet, a tub, a mirror, a sink
it has two perfectly fine lights
but I am enamored by how the light from my phone
bounces in then out of the sink

then that mirror, what a sight
whose hair is that, curled and untidy
whose brow is that, furrowed and staring
at what?
my head is cocked, I must be confused
and so I keep on staring

my gaze falls to the not dry sink
droplets of water arranged in a spiral
pointing towards the drain
they must’ve been placed there by
some maniacal artist
such a thirsty drain

though photons there bounce about
showing me myself
I think I’d rather
live a little? maybe I’ll just fade away
be swallowed by a drain, and sink
into void—this I’d rather

yet here I stay

we’re all looking for pleasure
can you tell us where it is?
just need a bit of leisure
to distract my mind for a bit
give me something to measure
enchant my eyes for a while
i’m not looking for treasure
just a breather, just a sign

you know we’re not opponents
can you tell me why I’m yours?
let me drink in these moments
things i know i’ll never have
i never could do romance
i’d have too far down to fall
can’t we fall into a trance
maybe live a little more?

i just want you to smile
can you do that for me now?
i can’t hold onto my words
things that fate would not allow
you know that i can’t draw near
i wish i could tell you how
my mind grows restless waiting
for the day you let me out

Speak to the muses blamed for your bruises—
They might say something yet.
Forget that the news is staring right through this—
Their blades with blood are wet.
You know you and I, we peer through the sky—
Feeling for fates unset.
Even though they lie about where or why—
I knew I’d ne’er forget.

striving, searching

meaning everywhere to behold
in a world hardly days old

diving, lurching

in a drowning sea of possibility
each drip a different plea

defending, upending

small bottles of water
preparing for the great slaughter

sending, contending

“mine is best!” i cry
and why?

tell me, gatsby—I know thee well—
what fate of ours do the stars foretell?
fantasy and reality—wherein do we lie,
thus deceived by passion’s sigh?

oh—but you’ve told me before,
what the world has in store
for those like us who live content
with fancied ideals set in cement

that cursed or blessèd day
when you faded far away
falling further in a pool
while i sat here on a stool

alone and by myself
sequestered on a shelf
stored for someone else to see
my wretched tale of misery

i'm a fool
    with a camera
and i must stop
    and shoot
the rusted lattice i
    walked under

my friends
                                                           wait
patiently for me to finish

i aim and fire
    my photographic rifle
        and capture a luminous sun

Let not our humble minds admit
That we are better than the rest;
Lest we ourselves our fates forfeit
To those who jeer and **** and jest.
Let not our thinking hearts believe
Love must belong to fools like them;
Such noble strains as hearts must grieve:
Second to none; none to condemn.
Let not our wills be resolute,
Never able to bend or change;
Pity the strength of duller brutes.
So trust in life’s sordid exchange:
Though we will fall and surely die,
We too, one day, shall live to sigh.

I’m only a poet;
There’s nothing I know but
How to say what’s been said
Without a thought in my head.
I’m only a poet;
I know how to show what
We’ve seen, paint lies instead
Of novel truths unread.
I’m only a poet:
Hear the cry from my hut
Of this man who has bled
Tears borrowed from the dead.

when all the rooms are dim,
when all the crowds have thinned,
when all the thoughts that brimmed
have been by shadows pinned
against pride’s swollen rim,

when a quiet song is playing
from a radio relaying
static voices always saying
that never were they portraying
a world of only hurraying,

amid soft singing and late voices
are we not held against our choices?
yet in this the poet rejoices:

his soul’s words are yet unspoken;
no two works share the same tokens
through history’s line unbroken.

That all hath fall'n away impure;
That all we thought is now unsure—
This is the final cause of it,
That which we know has gone to ****—
Yet here we stay, throughout the days,
Staring into a foggy maze.