The boards creak and moan
from time and poor carpentry
The nails gripped by aged wood
have become crust collected and
shrunken to form

The bare walls once displayed
the smiling faces
of past eons but now
there are only the faded remnants
of square foundations
of lives that once
hung on the wall

The stairs complain
like an old man
from unsubstantiated fears
The second floor
seems solid only responding
to the remarks of my shoes

The old bedroom
once the center of attraction
overlooks the buckled sidewalks
and **** infested yards
of a street that now has no cars
or people passing by

I stand in silence for the moment
and the moment stands silent for me
And for that moment
I lay in time's eternal graveyard
in hopes of reviving dead dreams

I do not know what popularity feels like,
I only know others hatred
the stinging in my eyes as I remember
their insults
holding back the tears threatening to fall.
But I would rather
everyone hate me but one
true friend
then have the compliments
of a thousand
popular kids
fakes
plastics
who know not of the pain they put others through
but only of physical beauty,
too much self-absorption,
and their love
of humiliating those who
they believe
are less than they are
but not anymore.
From this day forward
I don't care if they insult me
for I will always be how I am
and I won't change that for
*anyone.

blown that dream well down stream
ignited the fuse to a different future
took some chances won some hands
but in the end we all end up naked.

Sometimes
Life keeps moving when you're trying so hard to hold still.
Roll with the punches, make changes, do something to better yourself
Or *simply fade away.
There's more out there,
There's undiscovered emotions and ideas that could broaden your horizons wider than the most beautiful sunset that you may never even see because you were too set in your ways to go outside your comfortable little box and really SEE the world.

*The choice is yours.

Forty-eight floors up, a God’s-eye view

a man practices tai-chi on a tired patch of grass
he is measured, beautiful

families rest under new-green trees
in Yoyogi Park this early spring Sunday

Mt. Fuji rises like a myth, fading
to illusion in the gathering smog.



                                                            A few inches can be an impossible sea

                                                            we sit, silently contemplating discord
                                                            and the meaningless reasons for it

                                                            cherry trees paint the city pink
                                                            while faded petals cyclone at our feet

                                                            tears, fleeting as sakura
                                                            bloom and fall.

you know you do not write poetry
every now and again
- poetry borrows your fingers