A raging fire before us,
That lit the spark,
Between us.
The spark was kindled unto flame,
Sputtered,
And died for a while.
But was relit.
There was a blank page before us,
Our story written by some other.
The page was slowly filled.
Ink ran blood-red.
Words,
Sentences,
Paragraphs.
Blank spaces.

Our story is an odd one,
Still being written.
There is ink in the other's pen,
And life in the characters' veins.
I,
The naive,
Emboldened by you,
The enigmatic.
And I can't quite figure you out.
But perhaps the other can.
Our story has not ended;
There are blank pages before us still.

The ocean
Is fearsome.
Water blankets much of Earth.
But I prefer land.
The water,
Home to monsters unbeknownst,
To depths uncharted.
The water,
That can ****,
Destroy.
The water is powerful,
And merciless.
It is oblivion,
No means of direction,
Of hope.
I fear the ocean,
The wide open blue.
It suffocates.
I need land.
Feet firmly on the ground.
Wat'ry walls won't wash away my sins.
Only my hope.

Everyone knows that cold is numbing.
"Put some ice on it"
Why?

So that it goes away.
The pain recedes.
You don't feel.

Yet..somewhere on that scale from cold to numb,
Just a tick below, mind you--
Just a degree or two warmer,

There is alive

Today, not for the first time,
I walked into the shower;
Upset, confused, frustrated, despairing.

Today, not for the first time,
I let the water rain down over me as I sat;
I allowed it to wash over my pain.

Today, for the first time,
I turned the water not warmer,
But colder.

Then colder, and colder still.
I did not want to numb.
I discovered something.

As the water washed over me,
(the way I might imagine a rainstorm in Alaska to feel),
I felt alive.

Today, for the first time,
I lifted my head to meet the glorious cascade.
I felt

The water poured over me,
My thick, curly, sodden mass of hair veiled me,
Protecting my eyes from the icy deluge of daggers.

I was alive--
Free, refreshed, rejuvenated.
The water washed away my pain.

Today, not for the first time,
I was interrupted.
A knock at the door beckoned my response.

"Be out in a couple minutes!"
Regretfully, I rose,
Turned the water warmer, and sighed.

Within this 5'X3' tub I had found the only freedom a man is truly free to know.
The freedom of feeling.

Now, leaving my self-imposed confines,
I wondered if I would regain this freedom.
Ironic, isn't it?

That only upon leaving our free, enclosed spaces,
Are we forced to confront the constraints and limits against our emotion?

I sit on a shore and await my lover.
He of the golden hair,
He of the ocean's eyes.
A clear and lucid blue.

I walked on the shore towards my lover.
She with the laughter of bells,
She of an angel's face.
A soft and smiling face.

I turned towards my lover,
And kissed him sweetly.
I took him by the hand,
And led him along the beach.

I walked with my lover,
'Til at last we could walk no more.
And then we sat,
Sat upon the shore's soft sand.

Upon the soft sand I whispered secrets into my lover's ear,
I told him secrets,
Gave him pledges.
How little I did know.

I listened to my lover,
And believed her every word.
I vowed to follow her,
Through hell and beyond.

I led my lover astray,
Planted doubts and evils within his mind.
I watched his soul decay,
Until I could watch no more.

My lover ruined me,
Until I could stand life no longer.
The one I had entrusted with everything,
Had betrayed me.

I watched my lover die.
And for him shed not a tear.
But for the memories,
For these I cried.

I awaited my lover in heaven,
Waited as long as I could bear.
And then upon her,
My back I did turn.

I missed my lover,
Unduly so.
I had encountered,
A shocking chasm within me.

I felt something shift in the cosmos,
I felt a change of heart,
A heart I knew so well.
I turned my head over my shoulder.

I walked toward my lover that day.
Many a year later.
I begged his forgiveness,
For him had I wronged.

I watched my lover walk towards me,
Watched as she outpoured her soul.
I experienced a moment of fleeting doubt,
This I quickly suppressed.

I told my lover of life on earth without him,
Expressed my feelings of sorrow.
I told him I regretted my actions,
And prayed for understanding.

I listened to my lover's words,
And knew she spoke the truth.
So I said the words that had always been true,
"Now and forever, I love you."

If I could name Alzheimer's,
Give him a face,
I think I would call him the Thief.

But the Thief does not come in the night;
He is not afraid of the day.

He will ruin your cherished traditions,
Your favorite pastimes.
He will spit on the spirit of your memories,
Then take them, too.

The Thief will take everything
But love and faith
The Thief cannot touch those;
They burn and overwhelm him.

The Thief will attack,
Vicious and biting.
He will lure his victim into a steady routine,
And strike if his victim strays from it.
And in the lulls, he will sap a little more
strength
A little more
vibrancy
A little more

Life.

But still, love and faith remain.
They are humanity's last defense,
Her greatest triumph.

When these are all that is left,
The Thief will depart.

He is a parasite,
But the host will be of no further use to him.

He will return the shell,
The empty house,
And he will move on.

And love and faith will remain.
Love and faith will fill the rooms.
They will bring light where there was none.
Friends and family will remember all they had before the Thief,
Lament their losses, of course, but comfort in all they shared.

The Thief wins more than he deserves,
But he does not win total victories;
Small triumphs remain--
A smile,
A laugh,
The occasional yes or no.
The flicker of light that says 'I still remember. I'm still here.'

The Thief cannot take these things.
They are provided with love,
By love,
For the beloved.

Still,
I would not wish the Thief on my own worst enemy.
I would not want to see him so wracked,
His family so torn.

Even though love wins,
The Thief takes entirely too much.

His victims forget,
And we are left to forge..

A world of darkness will enshroud us all.
Chaos will envelop us,
We will be blind,
Mad.

The televisions will drone on with their incessant hum and vibrant *******,
Fifty shades of whatever you please.
Anything but
Truth.

Those in power will try to calm us,
Placate our revolting senses.
We will not give in,
We will molt and shed our submissive skins.

We will demand recounts and claim stuffed ballot boxes.
Our minds will empty and our hearts will harden.
We will not hear.
We will not listen.

Deaf.
Our pleas for our raw and croaking voices to be heard will be ignored.
While we may vastly outnumber our oppressors,
We are but knives and pitchforks,
And they are gunpowder and cannons.

So go to the polls today, you feverish fiend.
Voice your vociferous opinion.
Do what you need to settle the turmoil within.
Calm the nightmares of your sins.

Because tomorrow--

The world ends.

In a place of fleece and ether,
When the head lies upon feath'ry down,
In a place of paradisal comfort,
There lies a man.

In the place of endless sleep,
Where the dreams are dreamt in peace,
In the place of slumber's resting home,
There lies a man.

Upon this man's cherubic face,
Which seems bless'd by God himself,
Upon this face of eternal rest,
There lies a secret.

And within this secret, dark and dreary,
There is peace.
For the secret never broken,
The silence left untouched,
Is but a dream.

A dream within a dreamer's land,
A dreamer who dreams dreams too grand
For this world.
And this dream is unknown,
Now and forever.

It is the dream of a palace,
Large and grand.
The dream of peace,
Of love.

Within this man lies a dream of Heaven,
And the man is God.

O, what unfettered joy!
To see nature's ultimate majesty,
In all her sublime beauty,
What rapture!
What beautiful, wholesome bliss!

I wend my way down the winding river,
Lost amidst the allure of the water and the wild.
Three bald eagles fly in front of me,
What magic!

I pause, study one as it perches on a tree branch.
What marvelous, incredible regality!
It stares at me,
Bold and unafraid.
I stare back, in absolute awe of its perfect stateliness,
Its valiant bearing.

Less than a mile away, a highway hurries by--
Unaware and unappreciative,
Busy bees bustle from one commute to the next,
Ever they are slaves to the dollar,
The most grotesque of all the shades of green.

Trade your dollars for trees, I beg you.
Trade your asphalt strips for quiet waterways,
Your automobiles for kayaks, canoes.

Trade your hardened heart for the heart of the woods,
Your closed corporate soul for the expanse of the ocean--
Be alive, but be more than alive--
Be lively and vivacious and simply...
Live.

Trade your hustling life for quiet moments,
For solitude and appreciation,
For the quietude and sublimity that can only be found in one place--
Nature.

Research paper due
Hours away, and yet I
Have no urgency

The sun caresses my face
And kisses me with tender care.

The wind tousles my hair
While the breeze floats across my unarmed skin.

My iced coffee is cold and bitter on my lips;
I rise to meet the glorious day.

The bell rings in its tower
10 strikes to mark the early hour.

The sky, a piercing and unabashed blue
A color unlike any other hue.

The vernal equinox still lies weeks ahead
But I'll enjoy this brief, warm stead.

I listen as the birds converse and sing their transient songs
I smile, and do my best to whistle along.

Today is a good day.

In the dead of night I yearn for you,
Reader.

For your connection,
And the belief that you are someone,
And I am someone,
And that there is significance enshrined in our exchange.

I am made small by the vastness of this immense world.
7 billion souls, and I am but a diminutive voice in the crowd.

I hope that you hear my voice,
As I hear yours.

I hope that we might discourse,
You and I.

And I hope that,
Perhaps,
We might impact some souls outside our circle.

To think otherwise is too much to bear.
I cannot carry a cross of anonymity,
A cross of insignificance.

I must voice my thoughts,
And hope they are heard.

Because if a poet writes and has no reader,
Did the poet write at all?

So here is to you, dear reader.

This,
My shameless plug for your continued loyalty--

Without you, I am not me.

I have reduced your readership to mere pity,
You see.

Still I must ask--
Read me.

Why ten words?
Seems an arbitrary number.
I don't understand.

I wish to be a
Scribe, a King of the Language.
My Leaves--transcendent.

She whispers slow,
Soft, seductive secrets. 

She sashays with stealth,
And deposits a million kind kisses

Upon these,
My tired and listless lips. 

She breathes beauty,
Boldly inflating me. 

She summons my soul
From its deep and haunted hollow. 

She comes closer and closer with confidence,
Knowing that I am coolly complicit. 

(As ivy climbs its tremendous tower,
So too do I grow gratefully into her.)

She lifts my life,
And we float free of fear. 

Far, far away from here. 

To a land of longing long-forgotten,
Where all are secure in their insecurities. 

She takes me there,
Loves me with tender care. 

And then, with not a word,

She softly dissevers,
Disperses,
And departs.

I am left alone.

I slide beneath the blankets,
The warmth envelops me.
It is a cocoon, and I the caterpillar.
And when the morning comes,
I must emerge into the harsh world--
A butterfly.

Isn't it strange--
Admitting weakness is an act of unparalleled strength.
There is nothing we can do that takes more strength,
Than to admit our brokenness.
Even the tallest of buildings will crumble,
If it does not admit the cracks in its paint,
The stress in its joints.
Even the strongest building has a breaking point.
And sometimes, the building needs to be healed.
It is made stronger by being broken,
Like steel is made stronger by first being weakened.
We humans are no different.
We are made stronger in our brokenness.
Admitting flaws is no weakness,
It's strength.

Holding it in,
Allowing it to build
Up.
Until finally
Explosion.
This is no strength.
Resolve, perhaps.
But not strength.

The strongest things are,
At one point or another,
Weak.

Every part of who I am,
Every part of where I stand,
Is it all predetermined?
Is anything left undiscerned?
I'd like to think that choice exists,
I'd like to sit, and reminisce.

But time flies,
And I fly with her.
Time is ever-changing,
Ever-constant.
The great equalizer.
We are all the same,
In the eyes of Time.

But we can choose,
Who we want to be.
We can choose,
To set ourselves free.
We've got to let go,
Embrace the flow.

Change is everywhere,
And Change is beautiful.
As are you.
Because you change,
Like everything else.
And so you are beautiful,
Like everything else.
All the world is beautiful.

"Isn't it incredible,"
She queried,
"There's an addicting collection of lifestyles before us...
And we can be any of them!"

"Marissa, you genius,"
Said I,
"You brilliant, amazing, genius!"
She had articulated perfectly the way I felt about the world in front of us.

There were the usual crowds--
The jocks,
The nerds,
The theatre kids,
The band geeks,
The stoners,
The gamers,
The popular chicks,
The emos,
Et cetera, et cetera.

All with their own quirks,
Their idiosyncrasies,
Their peccadilloes,
Warts and shines.

There were other kinds of crowds, too,
Though.

There was the girl with thin scars on her thin wrists,
A part of the lonely crowd that grappled with a common demon.

The boy who wore the same sweatshirt every day,
Who'd recently begin to sport some peach fuzz above his upper lip,
Who often smelled of body odor and whose hair was a little too greasy.
The one who was a member of the horde of quiet poor--
Smart enough to fool you,
But not wealthy enough to keep up.

The student who slept through class,
Part of the group for whom school offered an escape from the wars at home.
A small island of relative peace amidst a sea of turbulent battles.

There were the busy bees,
With their AP classes and extracurriculars,
Not popular but not ostracized, either.

There were the ones who flitted between,
The social butterflies who somehow maintained the graces of all the above,
Few and far between,
But easy to talk to and unassuming,
The kind of people everyone likes.

There were the bullies, too.
The ones insecure in themselves,
Feasting on,
Reveling in,
Dependent upon,
The weaknesses of others.

All these and so many more.

We saw them all--

A brilliant camouflage of people and personalities and habits of life,
Some by choice,
Others not.

And like Plath's fig tree,
Which we'd read about in English class last week,
They all seemed so appealing,
In some way or another.

Maybe I wanted their smarts,
Or their popularity,
Or their anonymity,
Or their struggles,
Or their personality,
Or their strength,
Or their courage..

I didn't really know.

But I did know that,
Like the fig tree,
I would choose one,
And the others would die off,
Forgotten.

But for now,
There they were,
An enticing dinner menu with altogether too many options.

And here we stood,
In the hallowed halls of high school,
The world ours for the taking,

And such an addicting collection of lifestyles in front of us.

A mass of emotion roils about,
Yearning for clarity,
Closure.
But they fight as they swirl and dodge each other,
Each fighting for supremacy.
Like electrons around an atom,
I can't pin one long enough to identify it.

I try sorting through them,
Addressing them one by one.
But it's futile,
They're far too contradictory
For my fragile mind.
How can I know who I am,
If I don't know my thoughts?

I long for peace,
For an identity.
But too many worries pass through my head,
About this or that,
The endless what ifs like clouds against the sky.

I sleep.
I let my thoughts battle each other
Free of my interference.

And when I awake,
All is well.

Don't you know?
Capitalism does not want for you to need things--
Rather,
It needs for you to want them.

Once I was gold,
But now am black.
Once I was shiny,
But now am tarnished.
The unassuming air of innocence,
Has been exhaled.

My past behind me,
Like footprints in the sand,
Shall soon be washed away.
My childhood gone,
Sailing at sea.
My future unknown,
Beholden to me.

Once I was diamond,
But now am coal.
Once I was carefree,
But now am worried.
The unassuming air of innocence,
Has been exhaled.

And so departs childhood,
Gold today,
But not to stay.
Oh, to stay gold!
What misery is this?
The departure


of childhood?

Reading is power.
Writers wield power.
It is a deeply personal, purposeful power.
It is the power of emotion.
Writers contort,
Elicit,
Inform,
Demand—
Emotion.

And we readers comply.

Like the obedient child asked to fetch his mother a glass of water,
We comply without question,
Almost without even realizing the request.

So skillfully do these writers solicit our service
That we obey without thought,
Forever victim to the whims of the writers whom we read.

Anger on one page
Confusion on the next.
Fury in this chapter
Overwhelming glee twenty pages later.

Only in reading do we find ourselves so conflicted,
So torn between acceptance and rejection,
Love and hate.

We wring our hands over the warring words on the page,
We cry in one section,
And laugh in the next.

Above all, writers demand our compassion,
Our understanding.

Only they have the power to make even the vilest villain a sympathetic figure.

It is in reading, before all else, that we learn the strength—and the necessity—
Of the most useful emotion,
The most compassionate tool of humanity—
Empathy.

A city gleams.
Glittering gold
Lies there.
But it is not to be had.
Entombed by greed,
Selfish guardians.
A wealth of emotions,
Lie within you.
But they are not to be seen,
Or shared.
They are rarely even felt.
Walls are built too high.
Impassionate,
Cold,
Smooth steel walls.


Surrender.
Let the walls
Fall.
Learn to live,
To love,
To laugh.
Experience emotion.
Fly,
Fall,
And ultimately--
Rise.

The friends I make on my daily commute
Are not friends, really.
I don't know them.

But I could, couldn't I?
The mom with a nose ring and cool sunglasses,
Who absentmindedly scratches her cheek,
Flashing her wedding ring,
Blinding with the sun's glare
Rings familiar.

She could be my neighbor
Or my coworker
Or my sister's best friend's older sister.
I wouldn't know.

The man in the van
That reads AJ & Sons
Who also checks his phone at a red light--
He could be my plumber,
Or my next random drinking partner at a bar.

I don't know them.
But I could.
We cross hundreds of paths every day,
Thousands, tens of thousands in a year.

We are not alone.
We are strangers and not-strangers
Hurtling through space and time all the time.

Racing for money, notoriety, happiness,
Racing simultaneously towards and away from death.

We are one and the same
We are none and neither.

Are we?

Vulnerable and alone,
She longs to fly.
Trapped in her body,
So uncomfortable.
She does not see herself.
Her body,
Emaciated and thin,
Destroyed by her own hands.
Regrets run red,
Like blood from her veins.
Her ribs protrude,
Her girly youth,
Nonexistent.
She wishes for a new body,
A different body.
She does not embrace her flaws.
Rather,
She despises them,
And longs to fly.
She longs to fly free,
From this skeletal rib cage,
This thin and bleeding skin.
Little does she know,
What a beautiful angel she is.

I messed up today.
Had a fight with my dad
And let my emotions slip away.

I hurt you.
I undid so much work,
Disrupted so much trust,
Tore down so many layers of safety.

I shouldn't have.
I should have known better.
I should have waited longer.
I should have called later.
I should have controlled my emotions.

Not the other way around.

But I didn't.
That's on me.

I am sorry.

So, in order to attempt to assuage the ails I caused,
What follows is a list, enumerated,
Of all the things I love about you,
And all the things I endearingly hate (looking at you, #22)

1. How you make me smile
2. The way you cuddle up against me, nestled in the nook between arm and chest, below shoulder
3. When you wear my t shirts
4. How safe I feel when I'm with you
5. When you play with my hair, and talk about my 'crazy curls'
6. Our long drives and car rides together
7. The fact that you have a dog
8. When we cook together
9. How you're my princess
10. Going on late night McDonald's runs with you
11. Drinking Bloodline and watching Netflix
12. Trying to decide what show to watch, or where to go to eat (you pick, no you, no you--I picked last time!)
13. Doing homework together
14. When you let me try to paint your nails
15. When you take care of my weird hairs
16. The way you make me do things I don't want to but should
17. How supportive you are
18. Your hair
19. Going out on random walks in a snowstorm late at night
20. Getting chipotle together
21. Your smile
22. The way you STILL won't **** around me
23. When you scratch my back
24. How beautiful you are all the time
25. How you let me crack your toes in exchange for a foot massage
26. How you've finally learned to burp and be comfortable with it
27. The way you treat Kevin (a.k.a. your *****)
28. How you somehow never fail to brush your teeth at night, the way I assume most other humans do (or is that just me?)
29. When we sing along to songs in the car
30. Making memories, from Calvert Cliffs to Billy Joel
31. The way you twirl Todd when you're nervous or stressed
32. How you feel comfortable being completely yourself with me
33. How cool your family is
34. Spending time at the mountain house
35. Planning trips together, from Kings Dominion to Philadelphia
36. The way you also think water parks inside amusement parks are a waste of time
37. The fact that you share my love for pickles and olives
38. When you vent to me about your mom or Amy (or Amy and your mom)
39. How dedicated and hardworking you are
40. When you watch movies with me, especially ones that feature Ben Stiller in ridiculous costumes ("if you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball!"
41. The way you love history
42. Your obsession with Disney
43. When you appreciate my puns
44. When you make me pumice stone my calluses
45. How smooth your legs are after you shave
46. Your ****.
47. All your little idiosyncrasies
48. The memories we made together in Europe
49. Sleeping next to you and spooning, at least for a little while
50. You.

Of course, this list could not possibly encompass every single thing I love about you,
But it is a start--
An incomplete glimpse
Into a love that is real, and whole.

You are impermanent.
Or had you forgotten,
O ambitious pedestrian?

Your footsteps will not be long remembered on this earth.
Surely the watery waves of time must tell you this--
Each step, washed away only moments later.

Dry land is no better--
The shifting sands of the seasons do not allow you to make an impression.

I commend you, though,
O foolhardy serf.
Your earnestness does not go unnoticed,
Unappreciated though it may be.

You try to leave your indelible mark,
But you are nothing in an expansive sea of transient existence.
You are worthless.
Oblivion will eventually consume us all,
And there will not exist anything even remotely capable of immortalizing us in their memories.

Why, then, do you try,
O striving sapling?
Is the thought that you are meaningless too great to bear?
Do you press on in denial?

Or do you persist in spite of the obvious facts against you?
There would be something oddly commendable in this, I grant you.

Still, I must ask--
Four generations from now, will your family remember your name?
Will your great-great-grandkids know anything about you?
What legacy will you leave that endures?

Or is a temporal legacy just as meaningful as an enduring one?
History would say otherwise.
(We recall the Lincolns and the Mandelas of the world, not the John Smiths, after all).

But who am I to judge any one legacy any more or less great than another?
Who are you to listen to me?
Who are we to care?

Better not to, I suppose.
Better to do as much as we can with what precious little we are given.
Better to press on than to give in.

I commend you,
O inspirational being.

You do matter.

If you did not,
Why would you be here?

Do you even love me?
You say you do.
Point to your work,
Your sacrifice,
Your humility,
Fortitude.

I guess I believe you,
Empirically.
Objectively.
But it doesn't feel that way.
I feel...

Dismissed.

No, that's not the right word.
Resented?
Yes, I feel resented.
You resent the pain I cause you,
The hurt,
The torment.
I don't know where it comes from,
How I cause it.

But I do.
It comes from my stubbornness,
Inherited.
It comes from my belief that I am right,
Learned.
From you.

I wonder,
Do you feel you would be happier without me?
Without us,
Your family?
Would you not be so tied down?
Able to live your life for yourself,
As you claim you're so unable to do,
Always?

It feels like you resent me.
Us.
But mostly I think you resent yourself,
The choices you've made.

You say you don't.

I don't know.
Maybe you do,
Maybe you don't.

I am not you.
I cannot know.

But I am very much like you.
We are both stubborn.
Resolute.
Strong-willed.

Good qualities in small doses,
Poisonous in large ones.

We take them in horse pills.
Too large.

You say you love me.
Love us.
It doesn't feel that way.
But I know you do.

You're too strong willed not to.
You wouldn't care this much if you didn't.

I guess you do.
I only wish it felt that way.

My father hurt me.
Not emotionally, or verbally, or physically.
But he did push me.

He ****** me forward and higher,
Steered me through brackets of thorny growing pains.

I bled and was scratched,
But am not scarred.

He has constantly molded and guided me,
His hands rough and calloused,
(From all those long years in the kitchen, making and earning bread),
But ever caring.

He gave me so many "father-son" talks,
And charitably called them "man-to-man."

He breathed me into existence,
And his imprint on my soul is indelible.

Though there are places where the treads are different,
And the paths diverge,
One always informs the other.

And while of course we sometimes disagree
On thoughts of who the other should be,

He has taught me what to be,
And I have learned also what not to be--
From him I have taken the best
And behind I have left what is left.

I am proud of who I am,
And as I put these thoughts into words,
I know fully that I am where I am

Not in spite of him--
But because of him.

There's a love everlasting,
That burns deep within us.
An undying ember,
That neither water nor sand can quench.
And though we think the fire doused,
It can never be put out.
The fire is given
As a gift.
Though sometimes we misgive,
And are hurt.
But every fire has its fuel,
And each fire endures until the fuel is found.
Fire feeds off of fire--
That of another.
Sometimes this fire-fuel match is never found,
But the match still exists.
There is a fire-fuel match for each of us,
One that never dies.
And for every flame joined with another,
A bonfire arises.
And born from the ashes,
Arises a phoenix,
The emblem of life eternal.
The way of life is
Love.

Love,
And be loved.
Love with a fiery passion.

She told me one time,

That all of life was lost. 

And she told me that time,

That she was afraid.

She said she was alone,

That no one loved her.

She said she could not be happy,

That love was a lie anyway,

Because people always hurt you.

I answered her in kind,

That the sun,

Following the night,

Never ceases to rise. 

I told her that was love.

I told her she was not alone,

That the sun caressed her

Skin and bones,

And that was love.

She did not believe me,

For she preferred the night.

Mysterious,

Dark,

And comforting,

She said.

I said that was fine,

For the stars could love her,

Just as the sun did.

She fell so in love with darkness,

That it consumed her,

Killed her. 

She did not understand me.

It was the light in the darkness that loved her. 

It was the stars amidst the darkness,

That could save her. 

But alas, 

They did not. 

I only hope now,

That they can save me.

My friend, I beg of you.
Go and grieve.

Go to a funeral, a wake, a memorial service.
Let it be a man you do not know.

Sit among his friends, his family, his lovers.
Hear their stories.

Share in their laughter, their tears.
Feel with them, my friend.

Go, and remember sadness.
Remember beauty.

In death, there is both.

There is the sadness of absence,
And the beauty of love.

My friend,
Go, and be surrounded by all the range of human emotion.
Go, and experience all the range of human emotion.
Go, and laugh with this stranger's friends.
Go, and cry with this stranger's friends.

Go, and be a friend to strangers as a stranger among friends.

Go, and do not take this life for granted.

Write,
My brother.

Sing,
My sister.

Cry,
My lover.

Do not disregard your emotions.
Use them.

Go forth,
Make art.

Leave this world better than it was when you found it.

I see the clouds,
silhouetted by the sun.

I'm told always to look for the silver lining.

It looks more gold to me.

The sun shines brilliantly behind it,
Illuminating the clouds' angelic edges.

Like some kind of optical illusion,
I search the edges.
Old hag, or young woman?
It depends on how one looks at it.

Beauty is in the edges, I think.
The rough,
not-quite-refined aspects of our humanity.

They've yet to be tainted by societal demands.

Humanity is a beautiful thing.
Raw,
Powerful,
Deadly,
Provocative.

Its rawness is its most inspirational aspect, though.
We love rawness.
Polished is dull.
If we know one thing,
It is that no human is ever completely polished.

We all have our blemishes,
Our idiosyncrasies, (as Robin Williams might say in some movie,)
Those are what make us so beautiful,
So lovable.

Our edges,
Illuminated by the undying flame of humanity,
Not in silver,
But in gold.

two papers are due--
academia threatens
to swallow me whole

I want to hold on to this feeling,
Cherish it.
Grasp it,
Firmly clenched within my fist.
But alas I cannot.
This feeling is like helium,
It raises me up,
Lifts me off the ground.
I glide on wings
Of comfort,
And security.

Her lips do not taste of any food,
Nor smell of any *****.
They taste like friendship,
And I am comforted.

I am buffeted,
By these fleeting feelings.
I am elated.
No, overjoyed.

I am in love with the sun and the moon and the stars,
And the earth and the sky and all above.
And it’s all because of her--
Us.

Airports.
They reek.
Of goodbyes and departures.
However,
They're also filled with love,
And beautiful homecomings.
Hellos and goodbyes,
Complete opposites,
Yet so similar.
Jointly accompanied,
With hugs and tears,
Smiles and kisses.
The future is the only difference.
One devoid of presence,
And one full of it.
I much prefer hellos.
There's no feeling quite like the one
Of running to a loved one's open arms.
There is no greater feeling,
Than to feel the love.
Than to give it,
And receive it.
Of course,
Goodbyes are filled with love too.
But it's not the same.
Goodbyes are sad,
Sorry affairs.
No,
I much prefer hellos.

y  o  u  r   f  i  n g  e  r  s
i  n  t   e  r  t  w i  n  e  d

Within mine.
We know so much hope

Where is my home?

Is it in the bed of my parents' house,
The one I've come to know and love?
The bed, I mean,
Not the house.

Is it in my parents' house,
The one I grew up in?
The house, I mean,
Not the walls and corners and doors.

Is it in my lovers' arms,
The ones in which I rest?
Her security, I mean,
Not the lovely limbs themselves.

Is it in the company of friends,
The beers and shared times in which I take comfort?
The laughter and memories, I mean,
Not the rooms and spaces in which they occurred.

Is it anywhere at all?
Or is it everywhere?

Where does my soul itself reside?

In all of these?
Or none of them,
Somewhere else altogether?

I can't pretend I know.

But I know I call all of these my home.

I hope your homes are as lovely,
As cherished,
As secure.

I hope you feel--
Safe...

At home.

His cheekbones are hollow,
But he is not empty.
He wears the sad smile
That he's worn for so many years.
His grin is wide,
But his eyes,
They are tried and tired,
Vacant vessels of nothingness.
Yet still he smiles.
As if he knows that which
We do not.
It's a friendly smile,
Wide and toothful.
The smile of an honest man.
But honest men are weak,
Easily broken.
Honest men don't last long,
In this dishonest world.
But he is honest,
And happy.
Happy in his death.
Free from this.
This dishonest world.

How strange
That odd word is--
Change.

It rings harsh in the ears of the oppressed.
They desire it so,
Crave it.

But they are wary.
Too often have they been lied to,
Nothing new,
Not a change.
Weary.

When desired,
It responds slowly--
A dumb dragon,
Mute and deaf to your demands.

Like a glacier it moves,
Slowly.
Slowly.

It begs patience.
"Stab wounds can't be healed with a band-aid,"
It says.

It takes time,
And incremental steps.
100 pennies stitched together a dollar do make.

But if we don't want change
Well then it comes rushing raging forth.
Bursting through the dam of our status quo'd walls.

Like a dragon it flies
Furious and fire-breathing
Foul-odored stench and a repugnant force of being.

Angrily we cry and wave our arms,
Flailing about
In the face of this fantastic fiend.

To no avail.

Change will slow for no man.

And all the while,
A poor, crippled beggar walks the street--

"Can you spare some change?"

How strange.

I am not your equal.
We are not peers.
This is what you tell me.
You are my father,
I am your son.

You say you are proud of me,
That you love me,
That I am a good person.

But if a stranger were to walk in,
And see the way you talk when you're upset,
They would not think that.
And you are upset too often.

They would think I stole the car,
And went to Maine.
That I did drugs,
That I was a thief,
Or even a murderer.
They would not think you were proud of me.

It's hard,
Knowing how to walk around you.
You are the King,
And I am but a peasant.
I am not your equal.

Oftentimes, you treat me well.
We discuss sports,
Current events,
Even politics.
But I am not your equal.

Other times,
It seems I am the wayward son.
The peasant who did not meet his quota.
I am not your equal.

Most of the times you are a benevolent King,
Peaceful and kind.
But sometimes,
You are a harsh King.
And I must be wary.
Because I am not your equal.

You are a good King to me,
You treat me with love and respect.
But still I must remember,
You are King,
And I am a peasant.
I am not your equal.

All I've ever wanted was to make you proud,
And yet I don't know why.
And though sometimes you say you are proud of me,
(And I believe you,)
Other times your actions say different,
And actions,
As every peasant knows,
Are louder than words.

It is clear,
I am not your equal.
For you are King,
And I am peasant.
I am not your equal.
We are not peers.

I don’t know if I believe in god,
But if I do,

And if he is all-knowing,
Then he is not all-powerful.

And if he is,
Then he is neither benevolent
Not merciful.

"I love you."
We cling to it like a life raft,
Lost as we are
In a digital sea of FaceTime calls,
Stuck in the 8 corners of our bedroom walls.

"I love you."
It's not so much that we need to hear it
As much as it is that we need to say it.

"I love you."
They're the words that say it all,
When we can't find the other ones.

"I love you."
Words more of assurance than devotion,
Words of safeguarding, words of longing.

"I love you."
Because I can't see you and talk about the things we'd usually talk about.
I can only miss you.
And having already said that,
Only "I love you" remains.

I know you love me too.
But I just need you to know,
For my own peace of mind,
That I do--

I love you.

I felt like writing something.
I had an idea.
It slipped away.
I had the words,
But they were washed out to sea.
And now I'm here.
Grasping,
Reaching,
Clawing,
At smoke in the air.
I smell the tendrils,
But can't encompass everything.
The smoke envelopes,
Suffocates.
And now I'm drowning in thoughts.
Can't sort.
Can't process.
Too much.
Now the smoke clears,
And so does my head.
The smoke becomes a candle,
Holding all my thoughts,
All my words.
I clutch the candle;
Hold it with all my strength.
It is my sanity.

I saw god today.
Sitting in the alleyway,
Head hung low on the subway.

I saw him wordlessly crying,
As all the world went flying,
Dying by.

I saw him homeless and asking for change on 54th
I saw the streetlight illuminate his graying, ragged beard.

I heard his name yelled--
Out of fear.

I didn't see God
In the white picket fences,
In the pristine churches with cushioned benches.

I didn't see Him
At fish fries,
Or in ostentatious Osteen's obnoxious cries.

I saw god kneeling on the splintered pews;
I saw him fleeing with the Jews.

I saw him in the south,
With the poor,
Lying naked on the floor.

I saw god and didn't recognize him.

For he was kind
And accepting,
With eyes that saw,
But were blind.

I saw him wash the feet of sinners.
I saw him cry and pray at dinner.

I saw god today,
And we talked,
Embarking on a casual foray--

he asked me to tell him my misgivings,
And my doubts about faithful living.

I did.

"god, there is so much hypocrisy in this world,
And often, in your name it's unfurled.

You weigh down the oppressed,
And lift up the oppressor.

Christians shame their daughters for abortion,
They cry murderer and throw your words at her.
They do not help.
They do not heal.

Christians turn away those who would seek refuge.
They forget that you were Prince of an exiled people.

I am told that if I do not accept you,
I will go to Hell,
And you know this to be true.

Or worse,
A better man than me might go to Hell.
Because he calls you Allah,
Or Buddha,
And no matter the good he might do;

Still he is doomed."

god heard me,
And his tears fell--
Free.

he paused a moment,
And then responded,

"My child,
Can you not see?
Here I am before you,
And look how my 'disciples' turn away from me."

he said that word with bitterness and disdain,
I'd like to note.
It dripped off his tongue,
Even as blood fell from his wrists, legs, and side.

he carried on:

"Look how many are afraid of me,
How many reject me--
Because they don't want to see.

Look how many seek their own gain.
See how many look away from my pain.

Still, on Sunday
They'll come out and sing--
Cacophonous droning,
Wailing and moaning.

They do not worship me.

You see me here before you.
I am not their God.

Their God is one of self-advocacy,
Of Selfishness--
Of sublime, self-serving servitude.

I am Selflessness.
I am Poverty.
I am Outcast.
I am Brokenness.

I know your concerns.
I know you spend long nights questioning your faith.
Questioning others' faith.

Blesséd are you,
My son.

Blesséd are all my children,
Who seek to serve those who do not know my name.
They are my children still;
And still others of my followers have strayed farther for fame.
Blesséd are they, too,
That they might know me--
And you.

You come here and speak your truth,
And I thank you."

god stood up,
Humbly bowed his head,
Ever subservient,
And walked away.

I sat in silence,
Contemplating our verbal parlance.

Then I too stood up,
Walked away.

I saw him sitting outside,
In his hands,
An empty styrofoam cup.

I saw god today.

And as I walked away,
I saw one man stop, give him a couple quarters, and a nervous, friendly smile.

I saw another walk past, dressed in her Sunday best, averting her gaze, using her body to block her child's line of sight.

I saw god today.


Did you?

The seconds tick away,
Yet the clock stands still.
At the end of the day,
Where did the hours go?
And the world spins 'round,
Yet we're rooted to the ground.
Life goes by,
And we're blown away
By the hours wasted,
In a precious day.
See how the world spins (!)
And the people run around,
Living busy little lives,
Running into the ground.
All for nothing,
All is lost (!)
For the people know the minutes,
But lose sight of time.
At the end of the day,
What will you leave behind?

Every teardrop a dagger
As each one slid down her fair face--
Rolled off her cheeks,
And punctured my chest.

Every sob a stab,
Each choked breath of hers
Taken from a strangled lung of mine.
We are dying.

She is my world
My Mother Earth.

Now I watch,
As oceans overflow in her eyes,
As forests turn to deserts in her chest.
As she is ravaged.

We, I know, are linked still.

With every tear she cries I cry out in pain and fury at my helplessness
I am lost and alone and afraid and I don't want to lose her but it feels like I am losing her I know I'm not but I need to stop the daggers falling from her face as they lacerate my blood and squeeze my lungs like a medieval  execution by crushing.

Her pain is my pain.

We are one
And the same.

We are born sinners.
We will die sinners.
But our sins do not define us.
Nor do we define our sins,
Only God can do that.
We are not our sins,
But rather,
We are everything else.
We are our good deeds,
Our kind words,
Our human,
Yet ephemeral
Souls.
We are indefinable,
Inexplainable,
But glorious in our demise.
Yet first we rise,
And then do we fall.
And only our souls remain.
And still we cannot be confined,
To insufficient explanations.
The truth sets us free.
And the truth remains,
That we are more,
Than the sum of our parts.

Imagine a world
With no greenery.
With no lightning bugs,
Or fire flies.
Where children didn't catch them in jars,
To use as a night light later.
And put grass in the jars,
To nourish and feed them.

Imagine a world,
Where the trees didn't sparkle and glitter
For a few weeks in June.
Like Christmas,
Come early.

Imagine a world,
Without curiosity,
Without childhood.
Where games of House and Tag were replaced--
With screens and simulators.
Where personal connection developed through a middleman,
An electronic screen.

Imagine a world,
Where all your food was made,
Not grown,
Or raised.
Where machine made meals,
Not man and not mother nature.

Imagine a world,
Where the Sahara
Took over central park.
Where we built skyscrapers,
On what used to be farms.

Imagine a world,
Where all light was artificial,
Flourescent.
Where the sun was rarely seen,
Or appreciated.

Imagine a world,
Where birds never chirped,
And bees never buzzed,
And flowers never bloomed.

Imagine a world without lightning bugs.
Imagine a world without light.
Is that the world you want to live in?