Ticking off the time
while the ticks and the flies
creep and crawl across my face,
burrow into my eyes.
And I think my swarming friends
               are feeling hungry tonight.
So I guess it's only etiquette
for me to oblige.

When the fiddler's tune
starts to slow down and waver,
I cling tightly to youth.
But I ain't getting no braver.
And the steps to this dance
still feel foreign to me,
even if I know the words like a fish does
               the stream.

Now this empty dance hall
is quickly filling up
               with ghosts wearing tap shoes;
guess this jig is up. My cup runneth over
with tired clichés. And I'm knee deep in *******
               but I ain't afraid.
          Not afraid to be alone
          not afraid to be alive.
          Never been scared to die
             or to ignore signs.

But I must be

scared of something...

Sunlight so bright
think I'm halfway blind.
Squinting through the days and
sacrificing all sight.
I'm still hanging with the bugs
               while they scratch and they buzz
before I finally pinpoint just
what I have become.

Lay it down, black it out
while water sinks into ground.
Break it up, break me out
and we'll drive into town,
alright?

I refuse to write a poem about you. I fear the day my emotions get the best of me, leave me with searing fingertips and sword like pen stabbing holes in your perfection. I never want to cut through your life and dissect your soul. I never want to write about the way you smile and that one face you make - no. I don't want to recreate your hands with words that bring me comfort because I can never replace the feeling of them. I can't write about the way I look at you, or the way my heart pounds for you, or the music that reminds me of you. I don't want to admit how I pine for you, admire you, sit in my car, drive by you how just a glimpse of you makes me high on you. I can't write about how you're the exception to my confidence how you scare me in the most thrilling kind of way. I never want to admit conversations that run through my head, the drunken memories that come to mind when I need a distraction or they demand to be remembered. I cannot write about you and all your beautiful parts I can't talk about pain in an unreturned heart - I refuse to write a poem about you. My words would never live up to your truth and I'd rather have you than a poem that would never do you justice.

The tales we weave
seem to only breathe.
They become the
moments of bittersweet
bliss and change.

They are meant to hide
our lies and
our deceits
And they work.
On anyone we seek to
delude.

Until the moment when
the teeth gnash,
the hands clench,
and our tales give way
**to consequence

A flower, a rose, beautiful to behold
But painful to hold.
Wonderful to touch
But it's thorns a consequence to consider

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
     As I walked the cobbled road,
a fallen leaf had called to me
“There, they sit atop the elm
and sing in wing'ed harmony!”

     As I looked beyond the limbs,
t'was as the amber leaf had said!
Crows—a trio, black and jade—
sat sewing thoughts into my head.

     Doting all, their call, acute.
Feared, as they began to chime
and paint the scene in cackled rhyme—
a stunning scene of ag'ed time!

     “As the Earth sits up on high,
          Await the end; the end is nigh!
          And shaken from its pedestal,
          a common custom—gone awry!

     “And as the scrib'ed granites tell,
          the darkened lord shall cast his spell,
          and all of praxis slashed to
          barren ash and taken to his Hell.”

     Their words, a curse to roam the world—
a call, aloud—a siren's scream—
their call—the Cawling of the Wind;
this flawless song's an endless dream.

          They sing an endless, painted dream.
          They dream of endless misery.

     As I walked, my mind raced on
and paced about this patchwork key,
both singing of that cursed song
and laden with reality.

     And then this bent my hashing mind:
this pasture’s blinding paths abroad!
So ****** by its ****** disguise,
what once was fair is now but fraud.

     The thought of sin had bound my feet—
a burning chill that once was good.
His hell was just beyond my reach.
My body fell; yet, there I stood.

     And through the void, his spirit falls.
Gone, entranced, as he recalls
a house of cards with meager walls.
Atop the crown, his spirit calls:

“Hell is just beyond the green;
     past the lies and life you lead.
     As you age, the world will die.
     Your questions, answered;
          so, says I.”

     Around me, then, were those a’brood;
their dreamless nightmare once bestowed.
Our numbers fall; his rise in lieu.
Alas! Submit! We chose that road!

     This pasture waned an age ago—
a mountain, this buffet of lies.
For in his realm, the truth will show
that deaf ears harken not our cries.

     To a deity of piqued display,
upon a steed of dark dismay,
a fleeting wish, we're told to pay.
He'll raise his staff and he will say:

“Hell is just beyond the green;
     past the lies and life you lead.
     As you age, the world will die.
     Your questions, answered;
          so, says I.”

          Your eyes say no, but his say yes.
          A curse is thrown, and so we stress:

Our Hell is just beyond the green;
     past the lies and life we lead.
     As we age, the world will die.
     Our questions, answered;
     so, we cry . . .

                        *. . . and so, we cry . . .

So, how have you been?
I know it's been awhile.
I couldn't bare to watch this creature feature -
The selling out for style.
What good is luminescence
If there is nothing to be seen?
I choose to light my words
With colors-
Blues, and reds, and greens
And shower it with glistening golden streams.
So, pardon me as I purge my disappointment.
Where does integrity go
When the walls are burning down?
The lanes are blocked with gratuitous frivolity as meaningless as the strands of fiber drifting in a beam of sunlight-
Particles of bodies that settle on the coffee table only to be wiped away by a tattered cloth.
I cry out for the setting of the sun,
That glowing orb which destroys the mysteries,
And robs the seeker of discovery.
I ask,
Are the shadows being driven into the crevices never to be seen again?
There would be no depth perception without them.
A phantom weight is here,
Then just as suddenly as it came,
has gone.
The color is washed away in all the brightness.
What is left is white,
and not much else to write,
But of the sadness of the ways
it takes the texture from the days.

The choice to exercise free will
regardless of the consequences

A risk is being able to do what you want
even when you know every single consequence.

A risk is climbing a latter
when its only a rope.

A risk is believing in yourself enough to say "I did it!"
even when you're only half way there.

A risk is ducking in the shadows
knowing you'll get caught.


A risk is keeping a promise
when everyone is doing everything they can to break it.

A risk is keeping an open mind while still staying determined.

A risk is NOT waking up everyday and saying "I can and will do this".

That is determination

Determination is waking up every single day and saying "I was meant to do this"