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?