You taught me that a poem doesn't have to be
a collection of dressy words,
or expressions of feelings,
or have to hurt.
You taught me that

feeling comfortable with a certain person,
sitting under the moonlight,
talking about simple things,
the sound of your laugh
and simply, you,

can be the greatest poem,
even if the paper is still blank.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

An exterior furnished with that of Roman design.
Painted white and elegant;
columns and precise design.

Floor One.
Polished and clean.
I can see my reflection through your porcelain overcoat.
You're smooth and delicate.

Floor Two
The staircase is well maintained,
there's cracks, but not many.
The drop from here is not too far.

Floor Three
The stairs are decaying,
the elevator shines back a grey image.
Your view is great,
but the sky is cloudy.

Floor Four
Abandoned and bruised.
Shattered glass.
Creaky floorboards,
and peeling walls.

Attic
Dingy and flooded with cobwebs,
spiders and dust.
But there's artifacts here,
there's treasure here.
There's greatness here.

(NR2014) ©All Rights Reserved.

More than once I've tried to push open a door that said pull,
I suppose it's not a coincidence that I have never pulled thoughts
from my head without at first trying to push them away.

Safety precautions say that most doors should open outwards
from an enclosed room, says that it's easier to escape if there were a fire
-there's a fire inside of me, but my door opens inwards
and I'm locked in the corner of the burning room I call my head.

There's a sign over a door in the building I work at,
it says 'exit' in a red light -which I found quite ironic,
if red means stop, and exit means leave, where do I go?

Most of life is spent in anticipation and haste,
anxiety and fear of mistake;
what changes have occurred that have made life a competition?
We were taught as children that 'slow and steady wins the race,'

so why am I speeding up at yellow streetlights,
and running towards red exit signs?

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

The thought of you was crocheted into my mind
by the needle of false hope and blinded romanticism.
I thought I could cover myself in your soft words,
and fill the empty spaces with my shivering limbs,
but there were holes in the pattern of the blanket,
and I was a fool to think I could ever keep myself warm
under open stitched thread.

I wrapped myself up tightly
in the way I wished your arms would of me,
but I got tangled in a mess, and I never got comfortable.
How can I find comfort in the arms of a stranger?
How can a warm night leave me shivering?
I sewed another blanket in an attempt to keep warm,
but two unfinished cloths can't shelter as one.

It took several nights of tossing and turning
to discover that you can't keep warm
under incomplete relation,
beneath unfinished stitching.

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

Maybe that's my fault, maybe that's what I'm doing wrong.
I change people into words and metaphors;
each song I listen to screams his name, or his name, or his name,
and the music grabs me by the hand and spins me into the past;
the way he rarely smiled, but did at that moment,
and the way he kissed my forehead, I felt safe for the first time,
or the way he always made me feel like I was living life,
not just wandering around aimlessly.

I can't strum a chord without thinking about how my heart sung.
When the base drops, I can feel the moment my heart dropped
when he told me he never cared about me, that it was a facade,
or when he would rather lose himself in a different world
than hold my hand through the night,
or the way he left without a word.

Why does every song remind me of those who have wronged me?
Of all emotions from excitement to sorrow, pleasure to pain?
Why do they make me wish for one more moment with them?

Even if the only moment I can relive
is that of which he/he/he made me cry,

I want that moment again.

(NJ2014) ©All Rights Reserved.

There's something about your smile that frightened me,
all of the sudden the butterflies I've long since released -came back,
but not in the same way, this time, they weren't fighting;
they seemed as if to be fluttering around comfortably.

Your laughter is subtle,
but it was loud enough to scare away most of the shaking in my bones,
loud enough to draw my attention to your face, your eyes;
for a moment we made eye-contact, but I couldn't hold it.

They say the eyes are the gateway to the soul,
I don't trust the gate-keeper,
and so I quickly lock my eyes to the ground.
What would you think if I told you that I, for a millisecond,
thought you were the greatest thing in the world?

I didn't want the night to end,
but the sun will surely rise.
And we are clouds just floating by time after time.
Maybe it's best, you can't lose what lingers,
but I'm thinking of lighting up the sky with you,
thinking of being the wake-up call for the early-birds with you.

What would you say if I told you
I wanted to do nothing, and everything, with you?

(NJ2014)  ©All Rights Reserved