Sometimes it just rains all day.
the sun and the moon and the stars
all take the day off,
Get all gloomy and introspective and ****.
drop deep thoughts
and fill up puddles
and bring meaning to things like
windshield wipers,
and lackluster poetry.


I'm still sixteen,
out much too late,
perched up on the steps of the old bank.
searching for reason
in the glare of small town streetlight.
I'm still seven
when it would just pour down,
I mean literally pour down,
in buckets and all that.
it doesn't rain like that anymore.
Not here. Not anymore.


A storm-front has been working it's way
up out of the southwest
since i have existed.
certainly much longer than that.
it's carved a path from caveman to Kentucky.
and here we are
continuously inspired
by water from the sky.


I'm going to sleep.
it just feels right.
I hope that it will rain all night.
I sleep well.

Ever become lost
until any desire to find
or be found
dies with the sunlight?

That shone world
suddenly distant,
further than
small dying memories.

Better to be
separate and away,
for I am not them.
I am not
you.

See, these eyes prefer
darkness,
the blank sheet challenging
to create light.
So shut them
to see.

How long will the road go?
The sky is singing for me…
As this tumbling machine stretches
Into the lengths of the everlasting abyss,
The winds caress skin,
I am home.

To these whom death again did wed
This grave ’s the second marriage-bed.
For though the hand of Fate could force
‘Twixt soul and body a divorce,
It could not sever man and wife,
Because they both lived but one life.
Peace, good reader, do not weep;
Peace, the lovers are asleep.
They, sweet turtles, folded lie
In the last knot that love could tie.
Let them sleep, let them sleep on,
Till the stormy night be gone,
And the eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn,
And they wake into a light
Whose day shall never die in night.

With no mind, flowers lure the
butterfly;
With no mind, the butterfly visits
the blossoms.
Yet when flowers bloom, the butterfly
comes;
When the butterfly comes, the
flowers bloom.

There’s a man that sits on a bench.
He has his small notebook that he cast his thoughts into like a fishing line.
He’s trying to catch all the reasons he’s ******* up so he can gut them into chum, lure sharks and jump in with them because he know they won’t eat something that is already dead.

There’s a man that sits on a bench.
he has his small notebook that he hides his secrety into.
It’s no vault, but he keeps it close to his chest, clutched by the undying insecurity that someone might sneak in.
He would lock it inside his ribcage but he can’t remember who he gave the key to…

There’s a man that sits on a bench.
He has his small notebook that he paints his mind onto.
He has his black pen, it is his brush.
He narrates the paintings artists haven’t made yet,
puts meaning behind his dreams and makes sculptures out of his pain, chiseled away with the positivity that he could turn something ugly, beautiful.

There is a man that sits on a bench.
He closes his notebook.
He gets up, and he stretches his limbs.
He walks away, wondering
what will i write next.

I smoke my last cigarette in a parking lot
all the way down to the filter.
That final exhale brings the worry and fear of when my next breath of hot air will be.
I am dependent.
I am dependent on open arms to catch me when my fall comes to an end,
I am dependent on the smiles that dance around me to let me know that now is a good time,
I am dependent on the tears that streak faster than my blood when all i want is to spill it all on the floor,
I am dependent on the knowledge of others to throw my mistakes at me like fastballs, I’m hoping for a home run but i took a bean and walked to first and never made it home because i’ve never had a home plate…
my life isn’t shaped like a ******* diamond.