Ripples on dark and cold stone shores bring forward memory
Near the lake, I seek out the path to dark waters
Asleep not long ago, time has lost its tight hold
Escape is disgrace.

Colourful leaps!
glistening, burning flesh
shimmering across the walls,
it could have grown a glass eye here.
Smooth and sinuous under my nail,
from my hands scales rain down
the brilliance now quenched.
I pay no respects
slide the blade across
and separate.

a crunchy-looking evergreen
glitters beyond the buttery sun
melting onto dense white halls,
an angel’s resting place

my breath melds with the clouds
together we drift silently
our shadows over the hills
punctuated by the early sunset

The dark reflects off the mirrors
A long t-shirt fondly used to cover my mornings
Fell for what sought me

With ferocious caresses
I am a carcass thrown to a starving lion.
But I'm still breathing
Against the shoulders above me
In return

He prowls
The rainforest path of clothing,
Tugging the shirt back over my head.

Icons on a virtual screen
Tinny music for your ears
A row of keys
Linear time and
not so linear words

versus

A quill and ink
Bright dangerous oil lamp
Parchment paper
Musty like my grandmother,
Cradling the words in your mouth

gasping, panting,
the wind penetrating my pores.
eyes watering
I dash through the morning sun
a black blur,
free and wild as a sunspot

at ten past ten
peeking past my curtains I see
a dim blanket covering the sky

everyone's bouquets wilt a little today.

my stranger was slipped a note
dutifully bundled and hand-delivered
to the opposite side of the hallway

there is an old man standing
at the pole on the train
he is cackling to himself and
tossing feet around

it's at times like this
that i wish i were invisible
playing dead to the world
living mountain

hillsides growing gingko and pine
my stones rubbed smooth
by the murky water
translucent with memories.

lying on the ground
a cup of untouched mint tea
oxidizing from ochre to black

I put on a coat
stretch out on the balcony,
and wait for the mist

Gone is the wind
Empty forests loom
Higher than before
A hush settles over
a hundred houses

the lake is rippling
like worn blankets covering the water
ebbing
dangerously close to the boardwalk's edge.

I turn and walk away,
my back yearns for the vast open lake
as if it were a sea I could lose myself in
instead I am lost to the city.

When I was little, I'd
Laugh at the dramas on TV
As if their existential problems were
Something minor and
Easily solvable.

But now I understand
That we have many problems,
And if you are unlucky enough to have
An existential crisis
weighing you down
In addition to those problems,
Then I will cry for you instead.

Nature
The atoms circling within
A cycle of energy
One world dissolving into the next.
Nature survives on death
An afterlife exists
After time has passed
One where there is no fear of the unknown.
No overpopulation in this area.
No need to travel space.
And who the hell cares about cancer.

When the universe is reborn
Laws will have changed
And under the influence of a new space
Nature
Will cease to exist.

It darts past the sharp edges from my bookshelf to windowsill,
Throwing jagged shapes of light
reflected by evening clouds
Into my dim grey room.

I could never stare at it too long
It is the sun of the evening to me
Its eerie white glow naturally more magnificent
Than the blocks of light coming from the city,
Rendering me sleepless.

I'm sorry, but I won't be popularized
By you folk,
Those folks taking a triple digit
Instagram follower count
As a sign of legitimacy

I crave something more than popular opinion.

Your melancholy sparkle
from my bathroom sink
catches the corner of my eye
I get off my bead sofa on the sterile white carpet, drag myself towards you, who was
a symbol of potential and promise
that day you sparkled like anything I've seen before.
Not too big, not too small.
Just like the space between our hands when we held them.

But then you slipped under
the not too big,
not too small crack of our front door
and dulled the lustre on your body

Everything is a distraction
From my terrible thoughts that
At first run rampant,
Fleeing in terror
Then sprint back
with twice the energy.

A smorgasbord of pies, apples, noodles
pour into my arteries like a puree
filling the gaping hole, levels rising
only visible to me
hand over my eyes,
I swallow.

on sunday it was snowing.
the last goodbye was said
and the train was boarded.
there were snowflakes in my eyes
as i climbed the floors in my building
breathless from the cold

now it's tuesday
moisture is condensing again
instead of releasing to snowflakes
it corrodes the earth.

Worry yourself to the point of exhaustion.
Extend yourself in too many ways.
Make an effort to please strangers.
Hide your troubles to spare your friends.
Block unhappy thoughts.
Say mean things but don't mean them.

The bird calls its mate
On the journey to death and
Everlasting peace.

Soft mounds over green
Bushes hiding broken limbs
The cruelty of spring

What good comes of it
Of hauling your sorry *** to places you've never been
And all for what?
A peck on the forehead, some moaning under sheets
In between periods of loneliness and boredom

But hey, he's "the one," right?

untitled unity of words
collect in my mind
will my lack of attentiveness
eventually take over my mind and trickle down
into automized behaviour?

Writing words down
Using my brain as the generator
And my hands as the output
Writing whatever words I think
Brings the feeling of freedom
Of censorship
Of being lost inside
The vast sea of my brain.

Hard heavy hands lift
A steady worrisome heart
Breathing the ocean

There is nothing worse than:

Muffled sounds inside the bed
Hidden love
Under hot and heavy sheets

Having to come up for air
While drafty mistrust hangs
In the cool air outside

Typically I'm not someone to be written about
I'm not outstanding in the emotional department.

All I need
I don't need much
Is a gently warm body
And peace of mind

We need to experience more and write less.
Longing hearts lead to broken spirit,
Which ultimately means you'll never get laid.

Black cotton pants
Mirrored by a black sweater
Tight at the cuffs, but soft everywhere else.

These are the beginnings of a man
Gentle in his own way
Feels and falls often
On the words of others
A melancholic poet

He goes into long tangents on his head,
One looping into another like the hair on his head
Capable of enjoying good wine, but not the
Good company of his friends.
All he wants is a quiet night alone.

There may be no end
To the verses he writes:
Literary, yet with a tinge of
Harsh bite
Criticizing the commodities encountered in life
He dabbles in drama, debates, and critiques
This poem is ending
But his words will live on.

I hear breathing
and a faint persistent clicking,
probably his mouse.

pondering my own mood,
I sulk.

I curl my hands into
His tight curls loosened by shampoo
Briefly kisses my hazy gaze

Grab his hand before he scrubs
Into the generous pile of soap and
Buries it to my chest
I greedily soak up the soap.

The bath water is delicately blue
Balanced between a light smoky exhale
And the edges of the midday sun
Reflecting impurities from our bodies

The news he broke like an egg
About to be dropped into boiling water
The tension seeps past the skin
And settles into my newly softened joints.

Did the raven flock
A faraway dark forest
Envious silence

she has a really flat face like someone kicked a soccer ball into it so he’d call her Soccerball Face
and so
he’d come over to my house
and draw pictures of her and just leave them around
and write poems
he’d just write over and over
“LOVE CAN BE PAINFUL.”

The slow decline in poets and novelists
over centuries
"it's not a profitable profession",
the media sighs

as if
pressing your products against
the fresh face of youth
is a morally just career

writing a haiku
left hand counts the limiting
cruel syllables

without a window
a lonely poet is just
a lonely poet

"author, poet, and playwright"
does being a playwright guarantee
you bringing home the bacon?

as a younger generation we are
focused only on ourselves
how to improve, how to survive
no one becomes a playwright anymore.

can playwrights earn enough
to feed their creative brain?
perhaps it is the lack of self-obsession
that benefits them.

how can a flower
blossom into the springtime
yet wither so soon?

flowing consciousness
through bitter opalescence
in a quiet night

why are you so shy
ebbing silence defeats me
please just look at me

my body belongs
in a claustrophobic space
or, back in the womb

I have a friend that says she likes poetry
she wrote some words in a notebook I gave her
words chosen more carefully than mine,
and the resonance on the page
is foreign yet refreshing, like a
pool of salt.

With her body as heavy as her mind
she stumbles to the bathroom,
but still managing
to knock over my face wash.

flashing pain across the temples, or
the groin
the realization that it's not fatal causes you
to push out a breath through
lungs on fire

a cold wind picks up
squirrels playfully frolic
under a grey sky

i made a playlist
it only has 60 songs
soundcloud is lonely