I don’t want a delicate metaphor
wrapped in porcelain echoes
of rhythm or rhyme
to describe the way I feel when
I lay myself in bed at night,
and the drummer in my chest
beats loudly with love,
but the ice in my veins
manages to melt from my eye
into the cotton fur of a cat
who wraps herself ‘round my head
night after night
‘til
(sometimes)
I can
f  i  n  a  l  l  y
escape consciousness.
A **** cat -
This is where I ask you how pathetic am I,
how unwise to unwind,
how sad is it that this is where I feel safe at night,
how can one person burst with such fulfillment each day
and still hear the “ting” of empty tin inside.
Dear God, why?
Why why,
why why why why why can’t I unscrew the bolt
that began the paradigm
that refused to subside,
that just lay itself down where my frontal lobe lies,
guarding happiness from uncontrolled growth in my mind,
and this,
this is where I unveil what’s beneath,
where I stop the poetry
and just tell you what I need.


I need a friend.

I need a friend who understands the struggle of waking up every single day to the choice between fulfillment and failure, the struggle of using every breath as a reminder to be free, to be happy, to be loved, to love, to feel. And most of all, I need a friend who understands the struggle of succeeding in doing so.

Success is lonely.

As I’m kneeling in church, eyes fixated on the crucifix above me, I realize I already have that friend. Then I realize I need more than that.

So, I have one last question, God.
What kind of Christian does that make me?

The sick, sweet pit
at the bottom of my stomach -
that makes me nauseous
when my throat drops down
so I can barely speak,
no audible whisper,
the one that nudges
every desire within
to call you and spill
everything I'm made of,
every word withheld,
every story untold,
because I miss the sound
of your presence in my life -
always comes
when I'm too tired to feel.

There’s a whisper in the wind tonight,
a placid serenity I don’t encounter often.
Do you hear it?
Tell me of the shadows that fill your sunsets
with ebony-hued desires,
and burn me a fire down in your soul
to fill their empty spaces.
I can’t fathom a life without the laughter
that makes my sides ache from convulsion
until I have to,
And I don’t remember what it feels like
to have this every day.
There’s a thirst in my gut that never quite quenches itself,
but, good Lord, that doesn’t keep me
from filling it with anything that might.
Listen to the words that lie chained behind my tongue,
and submerge me in the freedom I feel
when I watch our star fall asleep on the horizon,
its dreams dancing above in purple and red gowns.
Leave your lines behind your lips,
and lie with me in silence,
a silence filled with the echoes of the rustling leaves in the trees
that hold secrets of eternity.
Then watch my reaction as a faceless ghost
hums seven songs in my ear:
Don’t go. Please stay. I love you.

Breathe me in.
Let me fill your washed-up crevices.
Sweat out your lies,
and bleed out your hatred.
Fill the empty spaces between my fingers
with your dry, callused safety.
Tell me why I’m worth this,
or just show me why you care.

...Things I must ask of myself
on a daily basis,
Things I never quite learn correctly

I write for two reasons:
to make myself feel everything
to make myself feel nothing

Once in awhile, neither happens.
Once in awhile, both do.