Layer after layer
I'm scraping away at you
I've got blankets of my good intentions
soaked in paint remover
Every day I lay them over
your thick coats of shame and fear
that suffocates all your thoughts
that you continuously refuse to share
They've eventually gotta go some place...
but where?
They get buried under your growing resentment
that's coated over all your shame
which then floats in insecurities
that always have someone else to blame
And arguing, for you, is like a sport
that you'll do anything to win
I can't ever find a way out of this
when there's not even a way in
I keep running away
but only in circles
that lead right back to you
cause I'm not ready to choose
I'm not ready to lose ...
But the other night you told me
that when you leave you'll be just fine
Said you've got plenty of other things to do
and going in in your life
And I'm not sure if you meant to
but that felt like my chest got bruised
Because I'm not just fine
and I haven't been for quite some time
I want to feel close to you
But I don't feel safe to speak my truths
You quench me, and you dehydrate me
which completely tanks with mental health
Which I'm still not sure if you understand
I wanted you to be my safe space
I wanted you to be my man

Too cool to suggest anything to
I understand not wanting to waste your time
But at a certain point
you're just moving through life
with a closed mind
And too much pride  
How are you able to have a god and victim complex at the same time?
I'd tell you that you should be studied
but you'd smirk and whole heartedly agree
Then go on and on about being the person who is the most interesting
But you're really so exhausting
Not everything needs to be so serious
If a woman making music and showing her body distracts you so much
then just stick to audio recordings
instead of making it her issue
that you fall victim to
all because you have no self control
Because which is more pitiful?
A brain that can't see a woman without thinking about ***?
Or a woman who openly admits she likes it.
I can assure you it's not the latter
What a woman is wearing while creating shouldn't ******* matter
Your narrative is weak and outdated
And while I'm at it
what the **** have you created?
I'd like to see you be half as creative as the **** you complain about seeing
when you're not even listening
You're just too cool
aren't you

Lately I've been haunting my ghosts back
just as much as they haunt me
visions of silhouettes against stain glass
crisp autumn air in our mourning
I keep an iron grip in my mind
of every texture, every scent,
every feeling, and what everything meant
The darkness of November always sneaks up on me
and even without light, it's blinding
November always rips away at me
sometimes in a way that hurts me
other times, in a way that's healing
I don't always have the time to dissect it
I don't always find a way to understand it
I just feel it
and let it wash over me
because there's always art waiting
on the other side of the misery

Land of the free, land of "me me me"
when it should be "we";
it should be community
with a priority of protecting
your neighbors,
your daughters,
your sons,
mothers, and fathers
and their right to choose,
their right to live,
their right to freedom,
and their right to give
to any cause, to any God,
to have autonomy of their bodies
that don't bear the weight of laws.
Land of the free, only if you can afford it
and if you need help, don't ask for it,
you'll get shamed for it.
Land of the free, unless it's asylum you seek;
you'll be called dangerous, lazy, and weak.
I want to see acts of kindness
I want to see acts of peace
I so tired of this narrative
I'm tired of the collective grief.
This rollercoaster is never ending,
with constant spinning, turning,
and worrying
about the safety of my body
the safety of my peers,
the rich getting richer
and politicians mongering fears.
And then using it to their advantage
using it to get ahead,
no matter who it might hurt,
no matter who it might leave dead.
Land of the free, collectively screaming
but only ever at each other
at our neighbors, our children,
our fathers and mothers.
And for what? To feel glory?
To feel holy?
Are we really so lost
that we can't recognize repeating history?
Because saying "it could be worse"
means you think the loss of freedom for others is fine
you only hear their stories as complaining
and their terrified voices as a whine.
I don't know where we go from here
I don't know where to put the pain
I don't know how to make people understand
the importance of caring...
about a fellow human's well-being
beyond your own carcass
about the light and life in others
being swallowed by darkness.
Because I believe that freedom for others
doesn't affect any freedom for me
It isn't always about equality
it's about equity.
Oppression of other's freedoms is abhorrent;
why be so afraid to swim against the current?
Land of the free if you've got the right skin tone,
land of the free if you've got the right "parts"
yet the folks who know true oppression,
are so often the ones with the biggest hearts
who continue to believe in community,
who believe the oppressed and their stories,
who care for the well being of others
and no need for personal glory.
Give us liberty.

water rings collecting
from the condensation of my beers on your end table
no air conditioning, summer sweating
water rings reflecting
in the glow from rope lights draped across your ceiling
I remembered every single moment from that night for nine years
and it's those small moments
you tell yourself you'll never forget
so you study every shadow
every sight, every dusty beam of light
but time passes and you still end up forgetting
when you never thought you could
you just keep getting buried
but I'll take whatever I can get
I'm glad I had my camera strapped around my neck
it's how I trapped those memories for only me
back then it was for love
now it's for tragedy
good intentions are fleeting
because in mere moments passing
they're already transforming
you're the cat making biscuits out of my brain matter
years ******* later

I've got a brain like an old manor
always haunting the hallways of my own mind
and thinking there's gonna be something new I'll find;
but I never do.
I only ever find you....
everyone...
and them...
time and time again.
I keep my love in an asylum
safe from violence behind the walls I've built
I steadily keep both eyes on the doors
and my hands on the hilt.
But lately, this sword feels double-edged
protecting myself, but ultimately forming a wedge
between me and something secure
because showing vulnerability has never held much allure.
I've got a ribcage like a cathedral
stained glass expands from every breath within
I've got a heart like a sanctuary
church benches filling up with anyone I ever let in.
But they're all fusing to the surfaces,
because I can't let anything go
I've been taught what it feels like,
but I still don't know.
I don't have room for too many more
I've got to chisel out room or find a new door
to make my heart just like a prairie
ever vast and ever winding
with soil that's meant for growing.

is the light really gone,
or am i hiding from it.
accepting things,
for everything.
not changing things,
that can be changed.
staying silent
when i should speak.
am i the enemy,
or is it the light.
(2011)