I’m convinced that someone’s hacked into my head
and deleted the part of my brain that controls my concentration.
Because at times, I have the attention span of the goldfish who just downed a bottle of vicodin.

See, my brain is a livewire lined with high-voltage power lines of dreams and ideas,
and I can’t shut off all the switches and relays flooding messages to my nervous system,
because what I have is a nervous system.

Every caustic, worried thought that I’ve ever thought tends to show up there,
and all I ever do is worry about how one wrong word might end a relationship,
or how one right word could start a new friendship,
or how everything that I keep reading into,
is just bleeding into everything else,
mixing colors,
while I’m sitting here…

forgetting to take the time to paint with my passions and prides.

Lantern-lit nights
The sting and scratch of a thousand pin-point bites
Thick mosquito swarms
Three other siblings stumbling in the dark
Checking the riverbank lines
The thrill of the tell-tale tug of a catfish hooked

But boys aren’t supposed to be scared
of slime and scales or mud and messes

Boys aren’t supposed to be play with Barbies
or spend more time with their mother and sisters

But I prefer them to the savages

I can’t decide if I was right or wrong for giving up and shutting you out.

We both know you ****** up,
and we both know that I’m terrible at forgiving,
and even though I said, “I’m fine,”
you know better than I do that it was just another defense
I built back for myself so you didn’t have to feel bad
and I didn’t have to feel forced into trying steer us away from the cliff,
even though you kept clawing your way towards the edge–
dragging me along as if I were some sycophantic, conjoined-twin trophy.

December lungs shatter by the blow of a bitter morning,
and while I’ve never understood mourning,
I’m not happy you’ve gone.

                        Pipe tobacco
                        War stories
                        Stern kindness
                        Fresh scrambled eggs
                        Read-along cassette books
                        Railroad walks at dusk

            I don’t remember much,
            but what I do…

                        I’ll hold close to my heart
                        until you meet your grandson again.

I want to scream
and throw ****
and cry until my
eyes run so dry that
the Sahara desert is
jealous.

You’re there.










I’m here.

There’s a world
between the two
of us; separating
us.

And it’s driving me
insane.

But…

   But in        the corner
    of my   heart, there
        is a  glimmer
          of hope
           that

won’t ***** out no
matter how hard
the winds blow
or how much rain
the skies throw
down.

There was a tire on the side of the road
next to a rundown gas station.

The sky was blue and clear in contrast to the
bleak remnants of a lost cause,

             but this led me to think:

                          I’ve been seeing the world through a
                          distorted lens for some time now and
                          I’ve been frightened by the beauty of
                          life and art;

             trapped by my own insecurities.

             I was stuck on how I could never compare
             to these amazing people, when I, myself,
             held no talent.

             But I’m starting to realize, that’s not how
             art, life, or the world for that matter works.

             You’re held accountable for your own
             actions and you’re not always immediately
             praised for your talents, especially if you waste
             them.

             You can sit on the sidelines all your life,
             waiting and watching as friends and family
             pass on by;
             fulfilling their dreams and aspirations,
             while you let your own life fall to shambles
             because of a stupid thought that invaded your
             mind from a very young age:

             “I have no future.”

             But that’s never true for anyone.

             And sometimes is takes someone else
             to help you realize that you’re worth so much more.

Your words make my skin
feel like molten gold

                        shifting sheets
                        spilled wine
                        broken bottles
                        shared secrets
                        renewed dreams
                        discovered hope

            and it’s only Thursday night

I know these late nights
            are killing you
            but you never let on



                                    At least they won’t last forever