i have resolved
to let these moments stab me,
teach me, by reaching my core
and harming me.
it will carve me into something
daring and emboldened;
perhaps i will be smelted,
reforged--
still stronger all the same,
especially without you.

A water bottle perched
on a desk, cluttered
with papers. Old writing,
portfolios of work half-forgotten.
A hand grips the bottle,
untwists the cap,
sips. Right now,
her words
are her only friend.

she sometimes views herself a burden
but in reality she is part of my ever-evolving serenity.

imagery of the sun invokes heat, brightness,
positivity-- the moon is cast aside.
but in her blue-green eyes, I see the tides pulled by sincerity and pride in tandem.
bella luna pequeña.

coffee mugs, chocolate milk, Bob's Burgers, black cat, canned soup, Civilization, peace.
her rhythm matches mine and blesses me.
we aren't perfect, but who gives a ****?
i will be the sun.

Emeralds and diamonds,
Affairs of State.
We didn’t build our bridges
simply to avoid walking
on water.
A bridge is a meeting place.
Neutral, casual.
A bridge is a possibility,
a metaphor of chances.
For the traffix in whispered
goods, where else but a bridge
in the night?
A philosophical people,
conversant with greed and desire,
holding hands with the Devil and God.
This living bridge is tempting,
you may lose your soul
or find it here.

*an erasure poem

time: ceaseless, rapid,
rippling, uncertain, kind.

it hoists me up, meeting
its mouth to my ear and speaks,
softly,
but does not elaborate.

it is a tidal fever, borne of crash
and rage.

a vagrant rush of purpose,
hope, and malcontent.

i listen intently
before it finally puts me down.

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

this essence has been boiled down to the nearest nothing
and deep down, it feels familiar—

a bird too grown to only now learn to fly,
its wingtips creased the wrong way,
nearly featherless, and weak.
nowhere to go but down
and even then,
impact doesn't promise
resolution.

a poem with too few metaphors,
too much “telling”— we get the point
but SHOW us—
as if listless anger and sadness
it's just a clear-cut visual,
crystalline in memory against all odds.

this essence had been boiled down to the nearest nothing
and deep down, it feels misunderstood.

writing a poem is hard when your soul contradicts the rest of you.
i say i love this woman and mean it,
and fear grips me, puts its finger on my lips,
and shushes me. tells me that neither of us
is ready, that i don’t know my own thoughts,
hopes, dreams, wants, needs, and their reflection
in the mirror of her stark blue eyes and soul.
that it’s all an imagining beyond my own soul
and comprehension, that i’m projecting
a long lost sense of helplessness and courage
onto her without consent because i seek
acceptances and intimacies beyond my worth.
and still, knuckle-deep in this hard, scathing noise is a truth i refuse to ignore.
i am hers in my entirety and only want to know
that she is mine— my soul contradicts
the rest of me but i faithfully **** it
and aim for the future i’ve hoped lives
in both of us.

the heat of her breath on my arm
as she sleeps is my world, personified.
my sun, and moon, and stars rapidly
expanding beyond the limits
of any love I'd ever believed was mine.

can i not bore into my temple
and remove the bitterest parts
of myself when they scream?

am i forced to witness their decaying
motions as they spoil and rot
every good thing I feel?

i say no, because i am worth more
than unspoken disdain, disgust,
unpleasantry.

fingertips to burdened lips,
I unsilence them and free the raindrop
words that ache to revive the good
behind the hurt.

paintbrush smattered in an ugly
hue of purely human creation,
no divinity in its intent, portrays
an image of a me that doesn't like me.

but it washes off in realization
that water is love is truth.
and that truth, beyond me
and in me, is good.

i'm a very hot & cold, all-or-nothing person, and i hate feeling stifled and like i'm not being heard, so i type my insecurities into this ****** little digital void and sometimes call it poetry

our hearts were full and spilled
onto each other and then this page,
radiance in tandem with love and fear.

if i am the sun, you are mi bella luna pequeña--
you reflect the brightest parts of me,
and our darkness is the same.

you are the automaton at the center
of my youth and health and life.

i am so deeply unsatisfied in my life
and too mired in my failings
to appreciate imagery and sound.
something reached deep in me,
scooped color from my innards,
and left me to rot.
living for spite is dreadfully boring.

night slept when she spoke,
creeping  back into its ceaseless
void.
day paused with envy
at her brightness.
the winds whipped
as she moved, and caressed her.

heart aimed at sunset,
she set herself
to become the beauty
she felt around her.

it was plucked from his eyes, his heart,
and the sheer wonder that left them,
stunned.

some cacophonous reverie,
a discordant daydream, pure wants and hopes,
and loves and laughs-- all faded.

what eclectic energy there was in them,
some flicker of familiarity and warmth--
led to a slow, burning descent into some place
he might call home soon.

none if it was supposed to happen,
no wine spilling
from whosever glass heart
would hold it.
mine shattered, and it poured profusely,
condescension and hatred,
in good measure.

the lies were supposed to rest
on an old, dusty shelf
with books you no longer read,
forlorn, while warmer things
filled your heart.
only now that it's gone,
do you believe yourself the victim,
and pretend to care.
from what remains, no love of any kind
will ever echo for you again.

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.

We, at various points in life,
draw a line
in the sand.
Marking where we've been,
where we stopped
to never venture forward.
Winds bring change no lines
can withstand. And we draw
them again in defiance.
We eke meaning from this sand
that would otherwise
mean nothing to us. Imparting
our own ideologies
onto an unresponsive medium
as a testament
to ourselves. Our independence.
The sand is most susceptible to change,
shifted constantly
by the sea, our feet,
the wind.
Still, we draw our lines anyway.

pin-pricked, the deep drip
spelled cacophony,
mired in chaos.
the human brand
of serially unkind
contradictions.
relatable

and distant.
far too nebulous
to satisfy your craving
after a long day of wanting.
those words silk-spilled
into some odd pile,
creation adjacent to intent,
and skewed from some cliff
hoping for release.

i find it fun to imagine oblivions
and what they mean to different mes.
one hugged too often;
one much less, and bitter for it.
i find it fun to imagine that one thing,
one word, can have its meaning
abstracted beyond my control,
and spiral into an infinite number
of "what-ifs."

what's also fun is autumn
in its richness and volume,
skylines dyed shades of cinnamon, pear, and apple. supple warmth
and deep comfort.

both bring foreboding if you let them, so the answer is to never.

I'm making a choice: you.

when i say i love you,
it's a promise that my heart is yours
in as many or as few pieces as you need.

when i say i love you,
i mean that words don't capture
the nuance of feeling peace in your smile,
charmed by your eyes, and lusting to contain
your entire wonder in a hug.

when i say i love you,
i want the answer to be, "no ****,"
because i want the world to recognize
your value.

when i say i love you,
i want you and mean it.

i love you.

you once lived deeply within some passion,
  met it head on, ember-laden,
    and self-assured.

its completion priming a response to share,
  for some ephemeral happiness,
    snared closed to what you'd say was
      "honesty" or "openness."
a truth that even you don't know. but it wasn't that.

winter's edge has dulled those senses,
  mellowed it, twisting into irregular sleep,
    multitude bad habits,
      disdain for the art.

just shy of two turns at half-light--
  theatre has grown stale.

inspiration comes and goes, flickers inconstant,
  meteoric;
    and with each passing flame,
      you grow more weary.

without the burden of expectation,
i flourish the way i’ve always wanted.
i have planted a seed of loving myself
and doing it so ******* fiercely
that it can’t be denied, and it blooms.
regret, fear, and uncertainty have burned
away and their ashes nurture this new soil.
i will tend this garden in myself
and speak crystal clear and loudly proclaim
that i am worth loving and i do it boldly.