When I grow old, I hope I have wooden bones
that chip with a sculptors chisel and decompose
into the same soil as the dirt underneath my nails.
When I grow old, I hope I've found my green thumb,
and haven't forgotten Eden's hum, to have a garden to
drink coffee in.
When I grow old, I hope I still smoke tobacco from a pipe,
and read by candlelight, I hope I look back on life
and feel at peace when I go to bed at night.

When I grow old, I hope I find company in a woman with
grey hair whose somber, but bright eyes still stare at the Robins through the morning sun's glare. I hope she hasn't forgotten
how to smile when I'm being senile. And her joyous laugh still resonates deep in her stomach.
I hope we talk about the weather, how last winter was
better, and that we grieve well growing old together.

When I grow old, I hope the young ones will take my
mundane advice, and even if they find it trite,
pretend that it's wise.
I hope I have granddaughters and sons who'll be
just as excited for the sunrise as I, sharing the same
childish wonder for dawn's light sky.

When I grow old, I hope I still hope,
and haven't sunken into the stodgy bitterness that
plagues old men,
but still remain with fiery kind eyes that yearn
to turn earth into God's garden again.

Dark dreary days deepen depressed minds,
but light lifts loneliness
as the winter sun shines.

Warmth withers winter's wilting chill,
a feeling felt melting the marrow of your bones.
survival is a contest of will.

Desire suppressed.
Hibernate,
wait,
and hope for winter sun to show her face.

It’s weird to think
these intertwining 13-feet-wide sheets
of concrete connect the sheets
between which we sleep.
There is something about seeing
every         boring        mile

between

that proves we’re more
connected than we think.

it is raining today.
it will rain tomorrow
and every day after that until may.
my heart matches my clothes…
soggy and gross.
empty and numb
coffee can only make you feel
a little less alone.

bricks and stones
books and photos
i am chilled to the bone.
with a beanie and scarf wrapped up close.  
i walk to a fork in the road,
two directions i could go
but either way i know i will be torn.
**** carpet won’t make feet feel all that warm.  

i and you.
i/you.
i.

….

coffee can only make you feel
a little less alone.

117 reasons I’m going insane
117 square feet to my name.
Trapped in an enclosed room;
haven’t been this claustrophobic since I left my mother’s womb.
A wallflower to bloom soon.
It’s never been my aim to be this lame,
but reality and aims aren’t always the same…

you give me mountains
and I’ll ask for the sea, 
I know a heaven exists… 
on the coastline in between


give me the trees. give me the waves.


let me breathe in that sweet escape.

I just need to get away

love rain i want to  runaway.

headin west  gotta catch the train. 

smelt like shallow waves.

like the kissing ghosts in our veins. 



constant state of flux i hate change.

happiness hides within our brains.

wirling thoughts like tides and waves

like old times in a new place

I either smell like coffee or rain.
a cat in a chair.
I sit and I stare
with reading glasses drinking champagne.
a beat up book
with a marked up page.
expensive tastes that mellow out with age.  
I feel like I have wooden bones
that itch with a wanderlust to see remnant stones.  
i am chopped down.
cut off.
lost roots that never grew.
what **** do I even want?
I don’t know if I ever knew…  
I burn with a desire
something that burns in my blood.
but I can’t seem to find it?
a fire put out with a flood.
was it a dream to inspire?
or something to love?
what can give fire a different hue?
a longing for travel?
I don’t know if I ever knew….