hiding behind false bravado
and an epoch of shame
twists uncertainty,
anger, and stubbornness.
this wasn't going to be a long
one but it was there to say hello.

poems are my escape
into worlds where sense
is measured in meter and rhyme,
and the undercurrent of meaning.
i make regrettable decisions
and excise those
that meant me well
in exchange for a pain
less familiar.
i would apologize,
but pride dictates
i stand my ground
and put pen to paper
instead.

Night stirs, stars surging
in the hushed & vigorous
darkness.
That void, ambient
in its design, holds artistry
and grace. Stars burst through veil
and shadow,
highlighting an ebony spire,
whose apex threatens
with beauty beyond
comprehension.
Their juxtaposition, a dance,
of heat and light and dark.

My sunlight burgeons,
burns, brightens, sears, and sees all.
I'm the son of light.

I pick and poke
and **** for meaning
and find it on shelves,
in the broken dashboard
of my old car,
and in the pain of glaring
directly at the sun.
In doubling up on ramen packs
and drinking Corona past 10pm
because I’m drifting.
In swiping left and right
in search of something
I’m not sure I want or need.
In searching for meaning where, sometimes, there is none.
I pick and poke and ****
to find a reason to care.

A real poet
Is not different from
A pregnant mother
About to deliver
She cannot rest
Neither sleep
Until when
The baby
Is out!

I refuse to let my artistry
be ignored,
broken, beaten,
bruised, or forgotten.
These words hold my truth,
deeper than any flagship
can carry.