The sun rises up
on the endless red skyline
with a song of hope.

Pride was our weakness
before the skies caught fire
now our pride is ash.

Do you remember
when we named each other love
beneath the willow?

We taught each other
to believe in forever
and even longer.

We knew this would never end,
we could elude noble time.
Beneath the willow

Under the summer
sun, we shared tales from time long
since faded away.

You asked what I believe in,
I told you my creation myth,
beneath the willow.

We found answers to
all of our greatest question
in each other arms.

Called it our own
happily ever after,
beneath the willow

Then the summer sun
begun to set and the leaves
of the willow faded.

But is this flesh, not
more, than a cell for the soul.
A far greater prize.

When the white bird flies,

the sky catches on fire.

Then the fire bleeds to the village

and the village burns.



Do not be mistaken,

this is how you catch the bad guys.

We must catch the bad guys.

Don’t you know?



When the white bird flies,

she purifies in flame.

Replaces evil with ash

and ash cannot stop the oil flow.



But wait, there was a mistake.

backspace, backspace.

Control alt delete.

It is too late, the sky already burns.



And when the sky burns,

so does the village.

These were children,

Where were the bad guys?



When the white bird fails

It flies a thousand homes to its mother.

“We will try again, tomorrow,” she says

and then she turns the screen black.



Still the village burns

and children become orphans,

but the oils keeps flowing,

it always keeps flowing.

The reaper always comes for his dues
I know this to be true,
he stole my heavenly muse!

On my knees I begged him not, yet he refused.
No matter my threats he never withdrew.
The reaper always comes for his dues.

Never once have I been more bemused
when the reapers came through,
he stole my heavenly muse!

I was half asleep, just taking a snooze
then he appeared right in front of my view!
The reaper always comes for his dues.

He looked at me and my muse, like he was trying to choose.
His hands reached out, to grab my muse, then he flew!
He stole my heavenly muse!

Out my window they cruised,
I, with shame, never pursued.
The reaper always comes for his dues.
He stole my heavenly muse!

Dear Future son,

When you open your little eyes for the first time
and look around at this great big place you will know
your privilege for the first time. I do not say this
as it is a bad thing, but I do not want you to forget.

When you are older you will say that this system is beautiful
they will shake their heads and tell you that this system is white.
This system was built for you upon their bones.
This is not a fault of yours, but you, you are American privilege.

When you become a man and walk down the street
you will not feel the urge to look behind you.
When they call your name you will not feel
fear brewing inside of your stomach; this is your privilege.

When the masses gather at your doorstep and
call for you to come and march with them
do not be afraid to hold their hands and stand beside them.
Let your voice raise to the heavens and merge with theirs.

Though do not think for a moment that this story is about you.
This story is old, has been told long before you.
The roots of your family tree do not grow here in this garden.
This is foreign ground, tread lightly here.

It is okay to feel proud when you stand beside your brothers and sisters.
Do not forget though, when you go home you can take off your armor
shed it like a second pair of skin, but remember that some people
only ever get one set of skin and some armor does not slip off.

You, like I, will go home to the children and drift off to sleep.
We dream and do not wake to worry about those we call family
we will never have to bear this burden.
This, this is our American privilege.

I have always been accused
of being a quiet man,
but within I am always
the loudest in the room.

The masses name me loner
or the shy boy in the corner,
he who prefers to stay alone.

But alone is a pleasure
I have never known.
Instead I sit with my
one and only lover.

She who awakes me
in the morning and
places me to bed at night.

When you see me sitting alone
know I am not alone
and know the quiet man
is not always what he seems.

There once was an old maid who lived by the sea.
She summoned words from the waves, like Poseidon, the king.
With each splash on the shore, a tale would be spoken.
It was said when she spoke, dreams turned to pictures in the air,
and danced all about, likes leaves on a mid-autumn day.
Men came from far and wide to hear stories from this maid.

One day when her patrons gather around, she told of a maid
from a far distant town. Fair and young, she was a wife to the sea.
She swore a vow, to stay as pure as her love, for all of her days.
She captained her ship better than any man, even the kings
of the oceans who loved the sea long before she ever touched air!
When the Lords saw her past no words need to be spoken.

For the most noble of words were not as powerful, as the ones left unspoken.
Across the lands men spoke of her beauty in their traveling tales.
Though she gave them no notice, for she only cared for ocean air.
The world grew to know our fair maiden as the Lady of the Sea.
To our stories woe, there was a man who wish to be her king.
When the Lady of the sea, made harbor on one summer day.

The man and his host waited in the shadow, to make war that day.
Our lady, sorely outnumbered, made battle more fierce than ever before spoken.
As the sun begun to set, she yielded for her men and named that man her King.
On that blood bathed beach a wedding took place, to darken our tale.
And so with the rise of the moon came the rite of wedding night. Though the sea
never forgets any vows that was spoken in its air.

The lady woke from her slumber and went to breathe the salty sea air.
Yet she smelled nothing but the munade smell of day.
In panic, she ran with haste toward her true lover, the sea.
As she went to step into her water, her foot felt like fire! It was spoken
that the her cries could be heard around the sea, if we trust the tales.
The man who wanted her to call him King,

ran away from the lady and left her to her true King.
All around her, the pain she felt radiated into the air.
Her sea had forsaken her. Now all she had left was her tales.
Banished from the sea, to the end of her days!
Her only thing left, was the words spoken
from the sea.

Now our lady, tells tales by the sea, of days
when she left the words unspoken
when she was the Lady of the sea.

I no longer want to feel like a bottom of a whiskey bottle
like the last sip of regret before my head hits the table.
This story I wish was a happy one but I know longer
know how to write the happy ones.

I have seen both heaven and hell, but of the worse I say neither.
The worst is the empty room, my own purgatory.
Here there is no joy, no pain just  an endless forever
and I have seen forever and I seen never.

The promise of tomorrow has became the threat of today.
Today is the abysses of which my toes stand upon the edge
Creeping ever closer to the final descent,
the leap into darkness, in pursuit of peace.

When I was little, like all kids
I was afraid of the monster that
Lived under the bed.

Now that I am older
I am still afraid of monsters,
But now they don’t live under the bed.

My monster live in me.
Me who feeds the beast
Who screams at two in the morning.

Humans don’t make good cages,
Our bones are just too weak
To hold up against this burden.

I know because most days, when dawn
Awakes to kiss the horizon,
I am still at war to keep the beast within.

So when people ask me about the scars,
The ones that litter my wrist, my thighs, my back,
What am I suppose to say, but casualties of war.

Because this is the greatest battle
I have ever known:
The Battle of Monster in my Head.

For if I were a better man,
I would not write this poem
I would not call up these
dormant words from their sleep.

And if I were a stronger man,
I would build you a strong house
out of big logs cut with my calloused hands.
Instead, all I have is a few weak words.

If I were anything other than this,
I would paint you with a metaphor
of a red moons against blackened sky.
Yet I write no metaphors.

And if a starving man refusing
to eat the food in front of him,
he is called mad, so call me mad
for never writing you your poem.

For if I were a better man, I would
have written that poem which reads:
I love you, I love you, I love you.
And that would have been my Mona Lisa.

I tried to write your resurrection
with a string of adverbs.
Tried to call breathe
back into your empty lungs with my words.

Some nights I will whisper
your name over and over again
as though the very act of repetition
will call you back.

I have learnt now,
that the walls of your casket
are just too strong to pierce
with similes and poetry.

Last night I cleared the desk.
Laid down the pen,
closed the thesaurus
and shelved the dictionary.

I said goodbye last night.
I shut off the light,
closed the door,
and walked away.

Somedays I am Abraham
Others I am Isaac on the mountain
Another the stone which rejoices in blood.
But never the Angel which calls stay,

And in this empty church, I Praise
And in this empty hall, I love
Remembering that though April may be holy
She still rains more the not.

And I am trying to find God,
Which I suppose means trying to stay alive,
To keep this weary heart beating
To build a home out of this ruin.

And though these hands may shake
I offer them to you if you choose
To take them and if not, my shaky
Hands will forget they once longed for you.

Let free your muses
from iron shackles
and submit your poems
to feed the jackals.

It is noble,
It is just,
to release your words
into the cosmic dust.

And who knows
perhaps you will be famous
for sending your poem,
and reach once more to greatness

Thethingswewrotesubmission@gmail.com

I thought that the end would be poetic,
like our favorite novels that end so cleanly.

I thought it would end with a period
or exclamation point, even just a question mark.

Instead I was left with a simple,
unpunctuated sentence, that was cut off.

I now know that happy endings
are supposed to stay in favorite books.

Life is more complex than
perfectly squared endings in neat boxes.

Life ends in the middle of a verse-

Upon my fingertips I have counted
the number of times my heart has been broken.
The number of times I have said no more.
The number of times I have said once more.

You, my middle school love,
our lips may have never meet but
our 13 year old hearts collided
like high speed cars crashing
somewhere between lunch time hand holding
and secret under table notes meant only for our eyes.
Three days after eighth grade graduation
I could still feel the warmth of you lips upon my check.
That summer when we said goodbye
I understood the law of gravity for the first time.

Now to my freshman crush.
The one that all the boys chased,
the one who I thought I could court.
We shared late night conversations,
giving each other secrets that we only told the dark.
I like a fool forget the law of gravity and jump once more.
You though taught me that sometimes
love is not always cupid’s arrow.
Sometimes love is not always handholding and lip kissing.
Sometimes love is simply secret sharing
and late night conversations.
Sometimes love is just a shoulder to cry on,
when love doesn't work out with someone else.
I am sorry that I had to walk away before I learnt this.

Finally I come to you,
you my high school sweetheart.
The one who was suppose to heal my brokenness
and show me why middle school love,
and freshman crush never worked out.
I lost in darkness forgot that you were not
the light to illuminate my path but you were just a girl.
A girl who fell in love with the broken boy,
who fell in love with the idea of love.
The only way the story of a girl who fell to hard
and a broken boy can end is with a tear.
I am sorry I could not love you the way
you needed to be loved, like how I needed to be loved.

Now it is senior year and these hallway
are filled with ghost that use to hold my hand.
Middle school love is now just a stranger
who I once shared a bus seat with.
Freshman crush now only exist in
long forgotten Facebook messages
and stray glance in the hallways but
not longer do we share secrets.
The girl who fell to hard no longer
looks up when pass in the hallways.
The memories that we shared have faded

And I, I say no more.
No more hearts shall I break
No more heartaches shall I feel.
No more I will say and say again
until I say once more once again.

I don’t know much about war,
and I know even less about love.
Though, I do know enough, to know
that love shouldn’t feel like a war.

Yet somehow I have always felt
like a soldiers behind the battle lines
drawn in the sand by Gods
who don’t know my name.

The other day someone asked me
“How come you don’t love yourself.”
To which I replied “How can you love
the greatest enemy you have ever known?”

Maybe people like me weren’t meant for this.
I learnt the best way to protect yourself
from  broken hearts is to let yours go, and
I have let that piece of me go a long time ago.

I don’t know much about war,
and I know even less about love.
Though I know that some games
shouldn’t be played, the cost is too high.

Do you remember,
when we named each other love
beneath the willow?

Today I decided to forgive myself
for everythings I am not,
for everything I am.

I have lived this lie
for so long I have forgotten
the person who lays behind it.

Tonight, I will pile every ounce of regret,
every pound of hate in the back yard.
Then like a conquered city, I will set it ablaze.

This conflagration will be a
symbol of my self revolution
against everything that says “You can’t”.

Today, for the first time in, a long time
I will say “I can” over and over
till I start to believe it.

Sing, oh valiant Muses
of unexpected, distant love,
born in a foreign land,
raised beneath a gentle moon.

Separated by a cruel sea,
their love still raged on
like a rose in Eden.
It grew ever brighter.

Not once did it ever fade,
til the sea grew smaller
and salty winds returned them
home to each other arms.

Though once more the
sea grew wider and violent
and was soon restored mighty
between these matching pair.

Yet this time was different,
this time carried the promise
of forever and what ruthless
sea could stand between that?

Night was always best.
In the darkness we were one.
In light, separate.

Last night it rained again
and with every drop,
I was trying to find God.

Because how else
would you get to earth,
from heaven, if not from spring rain.

Then as water began to
slip through my clothes
and kiss my skin

I wondered if he even
comes here anymore.
I am not sure I would.

Have you ever seen
the earth give birth
to a new day at the
bottom of a whiskey bottle.

Well neither have I,
but I once stayed up all night
in an attempt to count the stars
and bring order to chaos.

In that moment,
head against grass against ground
I knew what it means to rest,
to be at peace for the first time.

Like all things that night it too
died along with peace and stars,
but sometimes in the right moments.
I can look up and feel at home.

In that moment we
had forever together,
though never enough.

The best kiss I have ever known
is the one spring always brings
after winter loosen its cruel grip
that has frosted around our necks.

At first, you don't see her coming.
Like the first rains of the year,
the one that you said would never arrive.
Yet still she appears in front of you.

Your heart will quicken,
beat like the wings of geese
who have been waiting all
winter to fly home.

Next, you feel the warmth of her breathe,
like the soft southern wind
that melts the ice back to water
and peels away the snow.

She is even closer now,
you can see deep into her eyes,
they are the color of freshly sprouted grass
that always peaks out from the last snow.

As quickly as the tulips blooms
your lips touch, though she does not linger.
With the setting of the bright May sun
she breaks away with the sun.

She is gone now, just as she came.
You knew this would always end,
but do not worry, she always come back
when the winds of winter shift.

ack then I  used to believe in forever.
Call me naive but when we together
time no longer had any meaning.
The world was ours for the taking.

We built a shack and called it home.
There was room for the two of us
and that was all we ever needed
our own private forever.

Back then I used to believe in love.
When our lips met I mistaken the rockets
for fireworks but, this was no longer Children's play.
This was not the story we were promised.

Sometimes between the sheets I forgot about the war.
I forgot about those who were dying.
Pretending that these walls were a sanctuary.
Pretending that we, young and alive could not bleed.

But one can only make believe for so long.
These walls were built from wood
and our skin was not armour
and that was not a shooting star.

Back then I use to believe in forever.
Fire does not share my belief.
Flame does not know mercy.
And now all I believe in is ash.

They say to love
you must first love yourself
for without that you
have no foundation to build.

Which is to say my love is sacrilegious
for the hollow within me
has always remained hollow
but I have not stopped loving.

I have loved the misty rivers
on the cool mornings before the sun.
I have loved the turning of pages
and things laying upon them.

And for what is worth I loved her
even if it was only for a moment,
even if it was a mistake,
don’t you dare call it phantom.

My love is a blanket even if
I have not yet learned
how to fold myself in it
It is still real.

I still bathe it in the river
I still call it mine even though
I do not consume its fruits,
its flesh is not plastic.

One day I may fill what is mine to fill,
but til then I will not stop
with what you call “unholy loving”
because it is all I know how to do.

Lately every poem I try to pen
comes with only two or three broken stanzas,
the kind that taste oddly familiar like daily morning coffee,
the first stanza, of course, is a complex and twisted metaphor.

I write about new England summers
or late spring snow,
or a red moon I am still trying to forget,
but really, I am writing about learning to let things go.

The second stanza talks about the empty,
which is to say nothing,
which is to say everything,
which is to say her while she was still here.

And if there is a third stanza, it is of course her,
as if she did not leave more scars than not,
as if she did not remember how I tried to stop the bleeding,
as if any of it matters anyways.

Now I am not trying to be spiteful,
but I just don’t know how to be happy anymore,
I don’t even know how to be anymore,
though God knows I am trying.

So yesterday I wrote a poem with five stanzas
about a crow perched on a ray of broken sunlight,
though I suppose this too is a metaphor,
it at least does not look like her.

In April poems tend to pile
in counter-action to snow melting.
They grow like leafs
in ever direction.

What shame it would be
to hide spring gems
so submit your poems
to our magazine.

submit: thethingswewrotesubmission@gmail.com

I myself am nothing more
than a dream of a dandelion seed
which floats endlessly onward
without teleology.

How I envy the river which bathes me,
for what do rivers know of want?
When she bleeds she overflows,
perhaps that is all she has to teach.

Yet before the river, I am but a
eager disciple of winter,
of greens turnt to whites,
of grey migrating geese.

Though first I am nothing more
than a dream of a dandelion seed,
which is to say not lost,
but wandering without aim.

This poem is for all the words that were never spoken
The ones that got caught half way up the throat
almost to their destination, but swallowed back down again.
The ones that die on the tongue, leaving only the bad taste of regret.

This is for all those who were afraid to say those words.
The would be lovers who never found the courage to speak their hearts desire.
The preacher who has lost his faith and to the sinner who found his.

This is for the 1 am street walkers who fell in love with shadows.
For their empty pockets and full hearts.
And all their unanswered prayers to gods that don’t know their names.

This right here, is for all the moments that we spent together
and all the moments that died before their time.
This is a kiss goodbye or maybe even a kiss hello.

This is for all the people who ever wanted to die before their time
and for all the ones who keep on struggling.
I know the pain that nights brings.

This is for me, me who is all of this things.
And for you, my midnight warrior,
who taught me that there is hope in tomorrow.

This poem is not a eulogy, but rather a resurrection,
for all of us who go too far and love the wrong people.
This is not our tombstone, but our declaration.

Someday maybe
I’ll write a letter to the moon,
just to say I too
know how it feels to chase the sun.
How I too know what it means to hope
that someday this brokenness will be enough.

And someday maybe
I’ll have daughters with their mother's smile
And they will know I built this house for them,
They will know I already love them
Because even now I am waiting by the shore
for the ship that will bring their mother.

And someday maybe
Those girls will have brothers
who will dream of long forgotten chivalry,
I pray I can teach them that much,
I pray they carry not my burdens,
even so I will leave them my poems.

And someday maybe
I will die like Jacob,
surrounded by this noble house we built.
With the hope of heaven,
With the hope their love will be enough to redeem,
with the hope of once again waiting for them with the moon.

November sits dying
as I write of a summer love
long since faded away.


As I form with my words
of a time long since passed
autumn blends into winter.


My new affection sits waiting
as I scribe words of courage
yet November sits dying.


The frost gently grasp my body
as I wonder if I am worthy of the
redemption this love could bring.


Yet what do I know of love
so I let you love another
as November sits dying.

I still think of you sometimes.
The way your yellow tips curl.
The way your words scream like
a caged beast, longing for freedom.

I will not lie, you were my masterpiece,
so perfectly carved, gilded in gold.
A final rebellious manifesto,
something one could fall in love with.

For the first time I felt like I was understood,
the way you held my name
like something to be treasured,
I have never known love like that.

Though you are a jealous lover,
the kind I do not know how to love anymore.
Maybe it is because I am afraid of forever,
Or maybe I am afraid to let this loneliness go.

Sometimes I still think of you,
but I can not be with you.
For if the sadness is to leave too,
what would be left?

I wonder If Summer knew what Autumn did
would she soon forgive?

For greens will quickly turn to gold
not one will weep for lost.

The sun may shine the brighter,
But I think, not as hot.

And nights will grow the longer,
And moons will bring the frost.

And soon we will forget of Summer’s love,
Soon will forget of all she was

And If Summer knew what Autumn did
would she soon forgive?

Sometimes we fall in love with the dark
and I of all people, know this best.
Sometimes we are too broken to
be healed by anything this world has to offer.
I have read this story a thousand times.

When I was 17 I learnt at 2 am
when you are not yet asleep,
and the voices have been
screaming inside of you for hours
your only friend is the darkness that surrounds you.

When her hand fits so perfectly within yours
how can you asked for a better lover?
She has always been there for you,
even when the rest of the word left
and you didn’t know, if you will see tomorrow.

And there has been so many days were
I didn’t know if I would ever see tomorrow.
Still early in the morning she has always
called me back before the sun as risen.
I have always came back.

How great is my envy
that when the curtain
finally set
you did not look back,
no matter how hard I prayed,
you never look back.

And maybe I too love the dandelion,
As if it was not a ****,
As if it did not turn quickly to seed.

It may be a fleeting passion,
Like that of spring snow,
Like that of low tide.

And maybe rather, I love the bumblebee,
The one perched on the dandelion
The one trying to make a strong home.

Though this too says little,
For what is love if it cannot last?
For what is love if it cannot stay?

For winter will come and they will die,
Yet I endure with winter,
Yet I endure with memory.

To say that I hate her
would be to suggest that
there is a version of this story
where I can still sleep with the lights off,
there is something strangely familiar
about the glow of fluorescent lights at 2 in the morning.

It is also to say that her letters no longer
gather dust in the boxes underneath my bed.
That there isn’t a picture of her still between the tired
pages of the old family bible I no longer read.
I have never been good at forgetting
the walls after dusk still remember her name.

Maybe it is because I once loved her,
Or maybe it is because I still do
Like the way Daedalus still
loved the warmth of the sun
even after it took away his everything;
I too still sometimes smile at the bringer of death.

Though this is not to say I still don’t
try to fill what the gods have named unfillable.
It is not to say I no longer believe in magic,
it is just  to say that I am tired
of trying to summon what is not coming back,
I am tired of hating me more than her.

I wonder if God can forgive us?
Not for our sins, but rather
for all the words we didn’t say,
and all the ones we did.

It was February and the moon
was as full as your heart and
almost as bright as your eyes
when you said “I love you.”

I like a fool echoed it back.
Maybe because it was
so cold outside and you
were the first fire I ever known.

But what did I know of love?
Two weeks later, buried underneath
layers of blankets lost in the moment
I thought perhaps this is what love taste like.

Somehow I thought we could learn to
make our bodies stick together,
like a well packed snowball,
but cold and fire do not go together.

No matter how hard I tired
this body never could stick.
Still I played the part like a soldier's
who since forgotten what he was fighting for.

It was April when the deception
faded away with the last winter’s snow.
Still I could not learn how to love,
so you left, taking the only love I have ever felt.

Now it is July and I bask in the summer sun,
pray to be forgiven for not knowing how to open up.
Praying to be given another chance
at the thing the poets called love.

When I was nine years old
The stars were countable,
I kissed each one with the
tip of my finger, not for long,
but just enough to know
they were still there.

By thirteen my cheeks turned
red everytime she held
my hand like it was something
worthy of possessing.
Somedays I still remember
the pain of her letting go.

At sixteen, I found God in the
very same place I left him,
somewhere between the place
I was going, to the place
I already been, maybe that
was enough to save me.

I am now almost twenty years old
and my fingers no longer count stars
and my hands have forgotten
how to hold another and
on the good days, God is still here,
on the bad I listen quietly.

For the most part, though,
I have left those things behind,
not because I no longer want them,
but because right now I am trying
to stay alive and I am afraid
I can no longer do both.

Come home my tired lover
you have wandered so far
that the fire now only simmers.

The robins weep in the corner
for the primordial strain of
Valiant love is now gone.

Come home while there is
light left still to guide your
weary feet back to me.

The flamekeeper watches
from the tragic mirador
for words of your return.

Come home while the halls
still echo with memorance
of our once noble youth.

There is still ink in the
fountain to write a
happy ending to this story.

Come home my tired lover
I can only fend off the
gather dust for so long.

You wait for her name to flash on your screen
like it is enough to save you.
But the truth is she is gone  now,
and you no longer want to be saved.

Into the dark I walk
with an armful of broken promises
and of armful of empty bottles.
Waded down only by a backpack
packed tight with regret.

It is easy to fall in love
with a certain kind of darkness
so I keep walking
pertaining stories like mine
can have a happy ending.

This earth is not forgiven
she does not forget,
perhaps it is better to leave
my heart where I left it
and keep walking into the dark.

We were junkies who fell in love with moonlight
praise the heavens under street lights,
found God in the corner of graffiti covered alleyway.

We were  cracked in all the right places,
but never mistaken the shattered lines
for being broken, this is just how we made art.

Once, at two in the morning we found
the meaning of life scribbled on the back
crumpled up bar napkin filled completely with hearts.

And I swear that was the second most beautiful
thing I have ever seen. Of course the first being
they way this town burnt when we left it.

I no longer want to fight
against the pulsing dark.
I no longer want to flee
toward the membrance of warmth.

We use to be so happy
in our Sunday clothes.
We use to rejoice in the
pinpoint reflection of sun light.

Now ties become synonymous
to the hangman's noose.
Now sun only reminds us
of the things we left behind.

We weren’t made to be happy
the rose taught me this.
We weren’t made to thrive
you taught me this.

It is funny how sometimes
blood is just blood.
There is nothing poetic
about crimson on bedsheets
at three in the morning.

Hands unsteady like
elm trees before a summer storm
grasp for that which is no longer there.
How quickly than do bottles turn to hands
when recovery can only be found in forgetting.

I have learnt there is no glory
in trying to resurrect the very
thing which I, myself killed.
Maybe sorrow is something
some of us have to carry.

Though lately it has become harder
to carry that which is mine to carry.
So now I wonder if I were to let it go,
would they notice?
Would it matter?