How can it be
that you can have everything
and still want more?
Am I greedy when I ask
"is there anything else?"

How can it be
that the ties of friendship
can be undone?
Are they not elastic?
Aren't they impervious
to the ever-shifting sands of time
that weather meeker men
down to disassociated
piles of dust?

How can it be
that you can plant roots
that spread and intertwine themselves,
seemingly immune to any upward motion,
just to pluck them from the ground
that nurtured them for years
and place them somewhere
unlike anything they've ever known?

How can it be
that the world can hold so many secrets
and yet our instincts tell us
to discover the truth?
No secret was ever discovered
by trusting a single source;
like the threads of a dream-catcher,
we entangle ourselves in multiple realms
to capture what we seek.

I don't know which face means more:
the smiling ones
that coax me into song, and folly,
and memories as precious as time,
or the one blemished with melancholy
as it stares back at me
knowing there's so much more.

How can it be
that we have an imagination
as wide as the universe,
and yet we never dare
to find the borders?

Death is an invitation;
it's a cycle that
makes a saint
from a snake,
though the venom still drips
from those pearly whites.

like the snow in a Michigan spring,
do we persist -
do we thaw,
or do we melt?

The apex of meaning
is found in the sweet of honey -
not the pursuit
of righteous gates;

like the green teasing from under the white,
there's always something more.

We pass over to see what's on the other side
- They say that the grass is always greener
and I haven't seen vibrant colors in so long.
This melancholy feeling of fate
and choice is paralyzing
and uplifting.  

Cross over
the same spot that many before
found a dead end carved out by a stream.
Instead, they sat by the tallest tree
and divulged their secrets -
oh if the leaves could talk!

The water under the bridge
lies beneath to be forgotten.
But it flows steady
so that deer and pheasants can sip;
the splashing, rippling tide
echoes like our footsteps
as we pass into oblivion.

Once our feet hit the ground,
we take note of those around:
those who stayed behind
are the dandelion seeds surrounding us, drifting in the wind.
those who joined us
are the trees lined along the path.

If you try to back-track,
you'll find that the bridge can only be crossed once.

I'm a record
repeating all the same lines
hoping that you'll continue to sing along.
I'm a door unhinged
waiting for you to walk my way again.

You're a Gothic masterpiece;
a renaissance of imperfection
spilling over a lifeless canvass.
I sit with a pen
still in my hand.

I can't expect you to hear my every call,
I can't expect that you'll fix the threads that come undone.

If these words are my voice,
then this page is God's ear.
A prayer for what is broken
to be mended once more.

Waking up,
The smell of strawberries
Marries the air
And infatuates me into
An early morning's lust;
I'm in paradise.

Holding your hand,
Fingers intertwined,
As the radio plays
And we stay with the beat.

Leaning in,
This is the moment;
Strawberries flood
My tastebuds,
And then you blew a bubble to the size of your face.

Bathing in bubbles
That are scent-less,
And I'm senseless
And my hands roam
And your mind leaves this world.

A fire burns
And seven bodies
Bare witness to newborn
Affection-
And I swear a star was too.

But I'll never see that star.
That taste seems so vague.
I came in and burst your bubble-
Tastes sweet
Until the flavor faded.

So here we are,
A bubblegum kiss later,
With a layer between us.

Staring out at the bridge
Lit like the city it connects.
Patches of snow scattered,
The city is frozen in time-
Still and silent.

                                                        It's hard to medicate a broken heart
                                                                           When the medicine is gone.

The spot where we stood,
Your eyes bright like city lights,
Empty now-
The magic followed you everywhere.

                                                                     Holding a picture frame
                                                 Containing smiling faces and empty spaces

Winter's claws gripping at my cheeks,
I stare and amaze
At how the moon, the stars
Persist.

                                                                    I've lost sober sanity,
                                                                   I'm craving drunken clarity.

I wrote a story-
The Bird With A Broken Wing-
And his youth transformed
A raven into
A hummingbird.

                                                                              Liquid comfort holds me
                                                                                       To solid ground.

Trapped in a monument
Dedicated to what was not
Insured.

                                                                      Motivated by haunted illusions,
                                                                            I stand and stumble as
                                                            The bridge glistens off in the distance.

I return home,
Greeted by the sound
Of ghosts I used to know,
I used to love.

                                                                            Standing on the bridge
                                                                                  Where we departed.
                                                                             Crunching metal piercing
                                                                                      my memory,
                                                                                   Two lifeless bodies
                                                                                have consumed me.
                                                                                Staring out at city lights-
                                                                           Pretending they're her eyes-
                                                                                  I fall, I sink
                                                                                And watch as dark waters
                                                                                     Turn off the lights.

I write my words in cursive so they know how to.
The lines that bind us together can seem so thin,
like a dash of ink, it can be wiped away.

An island only knows water for the way it extends beyond the horizon.
The peaceful splashes of rippling waves can’t pacify the feeling of loneliness;
a passing bird squawks as it carries on its journey.
And the sun keeps rising day after day.

Have you ever felt the jolt of holding someone’s hand?
The spark of life that is embracing them in a hug?
We were made to connect,
yet so many of us sit aside
unplugged.

The singer on the stage begs us to sing along;
and for a moment, every stranger is bound by word and sound.
That post-concert depression hits hardest during that long drive home -
riding solo.

I write my words in cursive so that they know how to.
Because if they do, maybe you will too.

What a sensation
to have a ribbon between your fingers;
it flutters and bends at your whim,
it's graceful and elegant no matter how tight the knot.
As soft as the threads that hold it together,
remove a seam and it all falls apart -
descending like unkempt hair
that waves and spills
over a hermit heart.

What a feeling to hold a pen;
like God molding Adam's rib
into the most innocent
yet corruptible
being -
the creation's breathe
and it sounds like the scratch of pen-point on paper.

Undefined character arcs wait at the
mercy of the next line,
the next stroke.

What a sensation
to be flooded with sound,
yet deaf to anything on the outside.
The lyrics and sounds -
recited perfectly year after year -
change their meanings
and morph the mind
every
single
time
the beat penetrates the void.

This moment is a song,
and you're the next note,
but this song won't repeat.

What a feeling to have,
What a feeling to have...

Control.

WE don't need to make
America great again;
SHE makes us all great.

Love is the smell of spoiled milk:
even after you're rid of it,
it still lingers in your space of
solace.

Love is persistence
and dedication
even when your best is dismissed,
and your worst is worshiped.

Love is when you can't breathe because you're afraid of stealing someone else's last.

Love is not like -
love is more powerful
than a single syllable;
you should feel the power in every letter.

Love is the word your shoulder Angel sings
that makes you calm;
Love is the word your shoulder Devil
blames for the demons frolicking in your head.

Love is liquid;
it takes the form of something solid
until it eventually spills over.

Love is the understanding
between the sun and the moon -
Though they exist all at once,
they share the sky
so the other can shine.

Love is limitless;
I don't waste time trying to count stars.

I am an empty seat waiting to be filled.
All I want is to be seen and claimed,
Only to be released
Once a better seat is open.
In another life,
You and I,
We sat here for forever.
I gave you support,
And you stayed on me for comfort –
And that was fine with me.


I am the empty seat at the table,
Glanced over, and never heard from.
Louder voices grasp your attention,
While I’m squeaking out for your affection.
The server reaches over me,
You place your bag on me,
Hang your coat on me,
Place your feet on me,
And never before have I felt so important
So please get comfortable
And stay here with me.

I am the empty seat,
Unclaimed and forgotten.
Maybe it was my position or over-eagerness
That repelled you on to the other chairs around.
But at least I can share in the moment –
Quiet beside the table –
And pretend like you wanted me there.

I am your favorite empty chair.
The building is being torn down;
The chairs are being pawned off.
I wait to hear if you want me,
But before long, I’m thrown among the pieces of my friends
And wait until that glorious moment
I’m no longer an empty chair.

I want to do something,
not for you,
something for me,
something gleaming with everlasting renown.

Throughout this fraction of life,
I have grazed this objective
like a lover's fingers
tracing the profound edge's
of the starving artist's spine;
I have tasted that moment of completion
but only in the smallest dose,
like that last drop
that collects around the bottle's rim.

I cannot say this life has been mediocre,
but I yearn for the exceptional.
I'm tired of seeing lesser fools
idolized by fools more talented than them.
I'm tired of the chorus,
let me write a new verse.

And though the greatest agony I bear
is that I may never reach that fabled nirvana,
I hold close the dreams
that make believers out of fools like me.

Like lightning in the distance,
you're a force I can't grasp,
can't fear nor admire.
I yearn to feel a zap,
a jolt of reality,
but I'm still standing under this lonely tree.

I've been searching for something like you,
and it seems like every time I catch a glimpse
I watch it vanish within the whisper of the wind.
It's like it never happened.

But it did.

I lay in bed
with someone who tells me
"you never give yourself up to love."
It kills me to admit
she's the most real thing I've ever had,
but the left side of the mattress
could just as soon
hold a vacancy I've always known.

The thunder calls out from the night sky,
and the clouds conceal those diamonds above.

I stare at a computer screen
wondering whether or not to pierce through the guarded unknown.
Some call it closure.
Some call it the path to pain.
I close the tab and find something else to dwell on.

It's just a name,
a title.
It's not like I'm the only one who feels this way.
But we all know you don't need to be isolated to feel alone.

Shortly before becoming the same,
I'll understand the difference between a storm
and a passing rain.
One day I may be the lightning,
cradling the thunder
and light the way through the clouds.

Until then,
I'll lay under this tree
and watch its leaves get carried off by the wind.

I'm so tired of fighting....

When is screaming going to heal?
When will the cold keep us warm?
Using words like needles
though your heart is plush with love;
why do you push
and then ask me to pull?

This love is ripe.
This love is sweet -
just like the fruits of our latest nights -
and yet we are so sour.
You can throw quarrels and daggers
laced with spite and cyanide,
but then what can be done
when your fruits shrivel
and die?

When your mind clear,
as too is your path,
and I'm always there
waiting on the other side.

I'm so tired of fighting,
but I'd only sleep with you.
So keep this room sacred,
and let the only noise heard
be the sounds that lips make
when they dance with each other.

The smell of something putrid
protrudes up through your nostrils
as you walk down these dimply lit streets.
You hear the fire crackling, you see the glow off the side of an abandoned building.

Is this one of those fires you see on the news -
set ablaze by anger and retaliation?

No.
It's the burning wounds along Jacob Blake's back.
It's the marks of oppression -
the scars we "distract" ourselves from.

There's a fire burning in America
and the source is plain to see:
while bodies line up along the streets,
people following along on their TV screens
say a prayer for broken windows.
They mourn items that are looted
as if it wasn't a life that was looted first.

There's a fire burning
and it melts the black skin right off their bones.
A skeleton has no color
yet they blame corpses for their own murders.

There's a fire burning
from Sanford to Staten Island,
from Louisville to Kenosha.
But those very flames were ignited
by the people designated to put them out.

Who watches the watchmen?
Who stands with the people?

The hammer has dropped.
The bullets have left the chamber.
As long as our brothers and sisters
have to fight for their right to live,
Red, White and Blue lives don't matter.

Because you don't understand love,
I catch your attention
by speaking your language -
body and verbal.

You could've cried on my shoulder,
but you'd rather cry my name
as if you had ever longed to speak it.
"**** me",
No,
*******
for selling yourself short -
the heart costs more
than a single night
and a couple drinks.

A song from when you were young
tells of "a better touch, a better ****".
Legendary like the disco,
Sweetie, you had me.
And the irony is in the fact
you were never really in this scene.

You love it when it hurts,
you beg to be bruised,
then you wallow in grief
as you cry in the dark
all alone in a bed made for two.
They're selling a product
that's far over-produced;
it's not authentic,
it's cheap.
Be an artist,
be a God,
create,
make love -
your tainted rose petals
could use another coat
and a little tender thought and care.

And just as you exclaim,
"****!!"
as you sink,
admire us high above
floating on Aphrodite's clouds.

I still feel you here
(how dare you)
as I lay in bed
next to her.

I look at your picture
and I get upset
knowing I lost the love for myself
by investing it all in you.

But I still visit you
whenever I can;
you're not hard to find -
I put you there.

I can still taste
the fruits of your ***
and that unrelenting craving
for just one more lie;
it's sweeter than anything
I've ever known.

I brought you here once
and you always find your way back.

You think you're golden.

You're just a delicious lie wrapped in false promises.

And like the gratification of the taste,
Your pleasures are fickle and temporary.

You can fake the shine -
Polish the luster of your smile -
But any open eye can decipher what's real
And you're not.

You think you're golden
And you are.
Fool's gold always has value
As long as fools shall search.

Draped in robes
the same color
as the blood
that covered
the Cross.
It granted forgiveness-
a postmortem paradise.

You claim the authority,
given by the symbol 'round your neck,
to banish those who oppose,
and I oppose,
to the fires below
for eternity.

You take the symbol
of sacrifice and everlasting love
and you bend it at the ends;
accepting oppression,
perverting Purity.

"He's a ******!
                         She's a *****!"
Grab a mirror and remember:
the Devil was the
most Beautiful of all.

You've replaced the Father with
The Judge,
The Son with
The Priest,
and the Holy Spirit with
the Wicked Soul.

You pay your bills with my sin,
my prayers,
my Holy Salvation.

You speak in tongues-
the words like vultures,
they circle above me
and wait until I give in-
I've been consumed.

So condemn me to Hell,
Your Heaven is no paradise
for me.

Relax.
         Breathe.
Let the words flow naturally.

Unfiltered,
direct honesty.
Speak from the heart-
they can tell when you don't.

Something crafty,
a hidden double entendre;
Make them think about
every.
           last.
                  word.

A piece of your soul
served on fragile paper:
2-star meal from a 5-star chef.

Real.
Authentic.
Not good enough-

Good night.

It’s nice to see you again.
You’re always a click away.
I did a thing today.
Will you like it for me right away?
I see you found a new hobby,
you post a link that I copy,
and I like it,
because I like you.

I share my new piece,
take a look at your niece,
you seem happy and it puts me at peace.
But I’m stuck...
I’ve signed a new lease.
Look at this photo, I’ve used new hair grease.
You like it,
and I think it means you like me.

You fall in love and I like
that picture of you and them on that hike;
it feels like I’m with you all the time,
but this bond is only as strong
as our connection to Wi-Fi.

I’ve lost some friends but I deflect
by sharing songs to connect,
but these prevailing thoughts interject:

I’m all alone.
It’s just the screen,
and me.

I look at likes like they’re currency
and I’m currently
using poetry -
a writer’s diplomacy -
to scream “woe is me!”
but I bet you can see
right through me,
can’t you?

My digital friend,
where did this begin,
and where does it end?
Are we bound to do this dance
‘till we’re echoes of dust,
or call it like it is:
you and me, we’re just...

I can’t.

You post a picture.
I like it,
because I like you.

I see you
staring from across the room,
but that twinkle in your eye
captivates me so,
I can't look away, too.

I'm uncharted,
You're a creation of my daydreams;
We're familiar strangers
like Adam and Eve
as we lust over this forbidden fruit.

I see a smile
and our lips are in sync -
curving upward
as our eyes shy away;
The things we do not know
won't stop us
as we travel to the edge
of each other's imagination.

Dancing...
             She likes to dance
as she twirls through my mind
like a dream from long ago.

That look
(I know where it leads, do you?)
gleaming from within
the meadows of her glistening,
green
eyes,
expresses desire -
and she knows I'll succumb.
Tongue-tied and speechless,
I hope that she believes in fantasies, too.

You're one in a million,
and we're one-on-one;
The possibilities know no limit...




So let's keep them that way:
I'll remember you in fantasy,
and you can pretend that you knew me.

To the girl sitting at the bar -
surrounded by bodies, but you're still alone -
please see the beauty they'll see
before they ever ask for your name.
Your smile is addictive
like this liquid courage
that frees our inhibitions,
and lets a rat sing poetry
to a hummingbird.

They don't care,
but I'm sure that you don't either.
But a face that pretty
with eyes as clear as your
gin and tonic,
and their intentions,
does not deserve
the ol' college
Walk of Shame.

The damndest thing
is that at the end of the night,
all you want is for someone to notice you,
to treat you like
how the music makes you feel.

I would buy a drink and your time,
I would point out the way
you grab your earlobe when you feel

isolated

But this game wasn't meant for me,
and I've heard that you want a player.

Sweetheart,
they all notice you.
The more you wear,
the less approachable you are.
So I ask:
Please see what they'll see
before they ever know your name.

A chilling nothing.
Turn to where you used to be-
Empty bed and heart.

You are the cause of your own suffering*
I tell myself everyday,
but I still bathe in silt and shame.
Rinse. Recycle. Repeat.

I tell myself everyday
how mundane it is to be redundant:
Rinse. Recycle. Repeat.
Everybody that looks at me sees

how mundane it is to be redundant.
You only get one masterpiece;
everybody that looks at me sees
that's not a rainbow, it's an oil spill.

You only get one masterpiece,
but I still bathe in silt and shame -
that's not a rainbow, it's an oil spill.
You are the cause of your own suffering.

Validity is all I seek,
Or perhaps
I have invested all my life into a
Devilish lie.

A girl bathes in the sunlight in a
Bright red bikini - the kind of red of some lipstick that
caught your attention at the mall.
**** the men passing her by, absorbing
every detail of her body.
Few have felt her touch, that
glorious touch. The touch I’ve grown to
hate with everything
I keep bottled up inside. She likes to play
jokes on a hopeful heart; stealing
kisses from the
lips of a boy, still learning to be a
Man- an idea my father
never taught me, not because of a lack of
opportunity, but because he never figured it out himself. She  
played my mind like the piano keys she used to
quell the
reoccurring thoughts in her mind: those of
self-abuse and insecurities.
To feel wanted and loved, she
uses the attention of those staring eyes as she bathes in ultra
violet rays, questioning if the
water is a comfy kind of cold, much like the
X’s and O’s placed lovingly at the bottom of the note that ended
years of dedication, years of forgetting our uncertainties.

Zero degrees couldn’t be colder than that.

It's hard to sit on the throne
Of a palace built on paradise
When you are the king
of nothing.

Not too hot,
not too cold,
I like purple
because it's bold.
It's royal, it's pure,
it's a daydream sky;
while purple and black take me back,
the watercolors dry.

I used to like blue
like typically boys do.
Calm, a primary color,
your favorite flavor, too.
I like the blue of jeans,
and the blue of a summer sky;
I like the blue of these little pills
that motivate me to try.
-But blue is too strong:
a frozen twilight leaves you bitter
as you march through the snow
protesting, but Mama didn't raise a quitter.
Plus blue comes in many shades -
indigo, teal, more than you'd believe -
and it's hard to think
while a crowd cheers for their favorite team.

My favorite team is red;
I see passion and pride
in this jersey I'll wear
long after I've already died.
I like red because its
shades grow richer
as you taste something
intoxicating like liquor;
the way it paints
those curves of desire
makes you wonder
if you'll ever get any higher.
-But I don't like red
because of his car and his truck,
and this blanket of mine
that he's never tucked.
And a sky dripping red
ignites a burning fear
like it's soaked in blood
and the Lord's tears.

So purple is mine,
and I cherish it like gold.
As violets bloom,
I see the truth like a secret untold.
Blue and red come together
and purple glory reigns;
I am a paintbrush
whose color never drains.

I stopped dancing
and started to sing
because the background
was never the place for me.
A song came out
with no rhythm or rhyme,

Lo and behold!
By the gift of my name,
poetry flowed through my veins.
Whether they were spoken or written,
the words were true,

and I shined this spotlight on you.

Bold and blunt;
soft, and we romanticize the taste.
Tracing the curves -
valleys among mocha plains -
and passion reverberates
deep within the shade.

Innocence is corrupted
(we've all reached for forbidden fruit)
and it tastes as sweet as
You pass yourself off to be.

The draw of your baby blue eyes and
the pink of your naked lips
offer a look into what you used to be
or might have been.

But I suppose some sort of
saint
or
sin
came around and darkened the tint;
seductive and sultry,
and everybody wants a chance...

And I bet You know it.

I am a mirror.

My father looked at me
and he saw a disappointment;
so he ran away
to find someone with a kinder reflection.

My friend took a peek,
and they saw something pleasant:
They saw themselves in a different light.
So they put me in a place where
I was never more than a glance away.

A former lover glanced at me
as she passed by;
she saw something unstable,
so she found a mirror
whose glass she could bend at her every will.

My mother stood before me
and she saw her hopes and dreams -
I've never known someone to admire their reflection
more than themselves,
so that's why I love her in return.

I can see it all:
the beauty,
the filth;
In fact,
the only thing
I've never seen
is me.

Have you ever fallen in love?

I once did,
sitting on top of a sand dune
under the lights
of the Fourth of July.

                                         The water below
                                         cast the reflection of beautiful chandeliers
                                         bursting with color,
                                         and as timeless as sand,
                                         and yet my eyes were elsewhere -
                                         capturing something unlike I'd ever seen.

Have you ever fallen in love?

I once did,
laying on a couch as I held her,
she turned to me and smiled;
the chandeliers were bold and raucous
as they decorated the sky of my mind,
and the stars twinkled in the depths of her eyes -

                                        that memory since faded with time.

Have you ever fallen in love?

I once did,
the pen in my hand
gave birth to words and worlds
made from my reflection
like they were my children -
and I had always feared
impotency.

                                               I created places I'd never seen,
                                               but they were as real as sand,
                                               and for a moment,
                                               I felt like God:
                                               watching from above
                                               as my creations began to breathe.

Have you ever fallen in love?

I once did,
living on a page of black and white,
if I was God,
she was an angel,
and the song from her trumpet
reminded me of the chandeliers
I thought were lost in time.

Have you ever fallen in love?

I don't know if I ever have,
but what I have is something
that gives me a reason to be;

                                                 Something beautiful
                                                 and intricate
                                                 like a chandelier
                                                 whose glass was once
                                                 nothing more
                                                 than countless grains of sand.

Sea salt spray - the air
absolves you of all the rest.
You are an island.

They come and go,
like empty greetings
and rising tides.

They influence the way you walk,
the way you see the world,
even the way that you look;
and you're so willing to obey.

They are rebirth and death -
beauty,
and whatever you call
frozen piles of dirt.

They are the bliss of the sun,
the bite of a blizzard,
the glow of a fire,
and the innocence of morning dew.

Though you clench to the moment,
though they tell you that things are changing,
you always depress
once the colors begin to fade.

You may have a favorite,
but no amount of love or devotion
can freeze the calendar in time;
so Summer becomes Autumn,
Winter becomes Spring,
and all you can hope for
is a roof over your head -

- and even those come and go.

The clown keeps a journal filled with his suicidal thoughts;
His face wet with paint and his hair soaked in dye,
he laughs to himself as he reads the words scribbled across the pages.
They crescendo like the build up of a joke -
splashes of ink blots suggest that his pen blew up before the punch-line.

He remembers a time when the earth was grey;
the morning dew seeped into everyone’s socks
and they walked around with heavy feet,
indifferent to the man beside him
walking on the bare flesh of his toes.
Then a stream of water dribbled out from the prank flower on his chest.

In a world so addicted to tragedy,
comedy is sublime,
like the nicotine rush from a cigarette.

Yet laughter is a bond so easily broken.
The white on his face can wipe away,
the lipstick can smear,
and the dye can fade.
But beneath all of that is a smile,
a smile that persists
because nothing is wrong
when the clowns come out.

I am with you wherever you go. I
cannot be seen by anyone but you. I am
only around when you are weak - I am
the reason you must be strong. I am
familiar to those around you. I am uninvited,
but I have the key.
I come to life as the light is siphoned from your eyes. I am
anti-social and I hide away. I am
selfish - I want you to myself. I am
bleak when you have hope, I am
the reality piercing through your fantasy. I am
that bitter taste of regret as you swallow your pride. I am
the refilled prescription, I am
the angst against filling it. I am
the quiet in an open crowd. I am
the noise in your seclusion. I am
everything that you see no matter how far you go to escape.
I am your hopes and dreams - in the open for everyone to witness -
bursting into flames,
and you're forced to sit and watch.
I am the presence behind you waiting for you to fall.
No matter where you are,
I am with you wherever you go.

By fear or by love,
you've got me frozen,
stuck
in perpetual awe
and I don't know
whether I should fight
or I should fly -

My darling,
you've clipped my wings.

One day
You find yourself
Holding onto dreams of old
And grasping at answers
Both old and new.

One day
You look in the mirror-
Time has passed you by-
And the only blame
Is yours.

One day
You feel drained,
Filled with “what if”,
With nothing to show.
What a shame.

One day
It comes together.
You see like you’ve never seen;
It’s so clear, now
You’re on your way.

One day
You find yourself
Wondering how you ever thought
You aren’t a star-
You’re a sunbeam.