A cleaner slate than ever,
All traces scrubbed away,
And while I can admit I was cowardly,
That’s something you’d never say.

I no longer crave your closure,
The whole picture’s clear to see,
It was never about my well-being
You just found someone else to please.

Which makes it extra ******,
Reaching out just to gloat,
You couldn’t leave me be,
Had to shove it down my throat.

It’s changed my whole perception
Of the soul I thought you had,
I believed all that interlinked *******-
So that’s my ******* bad.

Now you open another playbook,
Most likely filled with the same plays,
And I just have to laugh at myself-
That’s just the way of the game.

They call the ship 'Burden,'
An indestructible vessel,
Rival to the monsters of the sea.
It's exactly what the people needed,
For you see,
In the depths lurked a beast.
Eighty tentacles, four trade ships tall and wide,
A hundred-thirty teeth when it's smile lied.
They called it, "Kraken."
It was nothing of the likes you've seen,
Emperor of the dark sea.

The Burden could hold fifteen hundred men,
Arming harpoons, cannons, muskets, wit.
The king ordered them to turn the seas red with gore,
Call forth the Kraken,
Strike it dead.
Then to the king,
They would drag back it's head.

So come high-noon,
The ship was in place,
Above the deepest of sea caves.
Letting forth crates of bait,
Staining the waters of the sea,
Until the sailors heard a rumble,
Shake the Burden's iron shell.

Up from the waters came long river's hell,
Tentacles like spires towering well beyond the sails.
But the crew held steady,
"Tighten the ropes, arm our cannons,"
Cried the captain,
"Then fire!"
The seas filled with blood,
The sky filled with gunpowder, fractured shells,
A shriek rang out from the deeps.
The cry of death,
From the Kraken itself.
Tentacles sinking away,
"The head!" Cried the captian,
So Lutenent Lucus dived after the creature.

Tied by a rope,
Pike in hand,
The creature's head,
He began to drag.
Though, glancing over his shoulder,
Through the murk he could see,
The form of a woman swimming away.
Some curse broken, he decided,
A soul freed from grim reality.

Peace.

I pick out my tea bags,
Sometimes two or three,
Steep them in hot water,
Letting them be.

Then I sift through my cabinets,
Searching with care,
For the best little items
My chai might wear.

I’ve already made sweet foam
To crown her with flair,
Maybe she'd like brown sugar
To melt in her hair.

Honeyed lace drips down-
Her favorite sweet,
She pairs well with maple,
Cinnamon makes her complete.

Deciding how we’ll dress her,
A very indecisive time,
Should she wear caramel today,
Or vanilla to rhyme?

Perhaps she’ll indulge,
Mixing both with a grin-
A drink dressed in luxury,
My soft comfort within.

I won’t pretend it was anything more.
It was looks. Just looks.
Shallow? Sure.
But **** — sometimes that’s enough.

The top wrapped around her torso,
tight but not loud,
just the right length, showing just enough.
That sliver of skin — her stomach…
Anyone would’ve looked.

The pants sat low on her hips,
baggy but not drowning her,
falling in that perfect accidental way.
Effortless — like she didn’t care.
But it worked.
It all worked.

The shoes were simple,
but they tied it all together.
Unassuming. Intentional.
A chain peeked from her neck,
rings scattered across her fingers —
tiny choices that made it hers.

She walked past me,
eyes down, texting.

I couldn’t help but stare.
You would’ve too.

Then she looked up.
Caught me.

A quick smile.
Not flirtatious. Not shy.
Just... there.

And then she was gone.

I kept walking.
But it stuck.

Not her name.
Not her voice —
I didn’t even hear it.

Just the way everything fit.
Like she wasn’t trying to impress —
but ended up doing it anyway.

It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t love.
Just one of those stupid moments
that still linger.

Who are you to decide what you deserve?
Without His will,
a leaf won’t fall.
Your lungs won’t move.
You don’t choose—
you’re allowed.

He raises the guilty,
strikes down the proud,
plucks kings like petals,
tears down empires like paper.
He forgives monsters,
forgets saints.
He decides. Not you.

You cry justice—
but what do you know of mercy?
You say you’re too far gone—
but what do you know of distance?

He speaks, and oceans part.
You breathe because He allows it.
You think you know justice,
but you don’t even understand grace.

So plead.
Repent.
Curse yourself, if you must.
Scream your truths into silence.

But don’t pretend you’re the judge.

I don't know how to end a story, don't see when the plot has died
Especially when it's a good scene, and the mood is always just right
The sun is setting- there's lovers on the beach, the future stands before them with nothing out of reach
Maybe that's not in the cards they pulled, I should let the story line fade out, but that makes me physically ill,
"They belong together" I shout-
And I'll stall the scene with every breathe, hoping hope can out-write loves death

Time doesn’t knock.
It slips in —
quiet as dusk,
loud as regret.

It won’t ask
if you’re ready to leave childhood behind,
or if that kiss meant more than it should’ve.
It just moves —
forward,
always forward,
like a train that forgot how to brake.

You blink,
and someone’s a stranger.
You breathe,
and something's changed.
You fall asleep,
and your dreams are already late.

They say time heals.
Maybe.
But only after it ruins.
Only after it erases names
from your memory
like chalk on rain-soaked sidewalks.

Time teaches —
with scars,
with silence,
with the weight of could’ve been.

And yet,
you beg for more of it.
You barter hours for meaning.
You chase it
like running was never its nature.

But time always runs.
It outpaces youth,
eludes love,
surpasses you.

Still,
you hold out your hands,
as if you could catch it.
As if it was ever yours to keep.

The answer: three.
Two to hold the
ladder, and one
to shoot the gun.

I’m sorry. I
was distracted.
So, what was
the question?

Your poems
need not necessarily be
an ocean of metaphors,
brimming with lofty words.

Sometimes,
all it takes
is a drop of water
to quench
an ant’s thirst.