When you get caught doing something you shouldn't,
you learn,
you figure out how to do it right,
but when we succeed we blame it on luck,
on skill,
and pure justification of thrill,
so if you get lucky once, then twice, then thrice,
how will you ever learn from mistakes with no consequences...

The mountains are alive with smokeless fire.
Yesterday I was running from it all,
I hopped in the car and threw my life out the window
And started to drive
Windows down
Music off
Nothing but the stars in the sky devoid of the moon
And the thoughts in my head that spread out like the road before me.

I didn’t have a destination in mind
When I drove to the harborfront.
Getting out of the car seemed monumental
The cold outside was a barrier I didn’t want to risk crossing
But I braced myself for the slaughter
And opened the door up anyway.

My foot touched the ground
And I winced
But nothing happened.
Each step forward forward forward
Brought me closer to the ocean.

I think it was snowing.
Something was swirling around me in the cold
Encompassing me
I couldn’t tell whether it was controlling me or I was controlling it
But it didn’t seem to matter.
My feet touched the sand
The sand was covered in white dust
The starts reflected on the calm water’s surface
But when I looked down, I didn’t see myself staring back.

Is emotion ponderous?
I suppose it is if I’m writing this,
If I can even ask the question.
Why do I feel so deeply
And have all these thoughts that wash my brain out like the tide
But never can find the right string of words
So that it will impact more people than just myself?

There are things that make sense to me
That don’t seem to make sense to anyone else.
In a fit of passion I see emotions in my brain
And write what I see
To the best of my fleeting ability
But what comes out is just a jumble of words
A couple of images
And not a through line of sense in it at all.

Maybe I should read more.
That’s what I always tell myself
Read more books with meaning
Instead of just the stuff that interests me.
Read more poetry that has words too big to follow
And morals so far buried
I need heavy machinery to dig it up.
Why can’t I write like that?
Why can’t I make words dance across the page
And up and around the minds of those that read it?

All you’ll ever be is someone who’s life has no meaning
Who can’t justify her place in this world
Because she chose the wrong thing to focus on.
There is no gift there
There is no talent
Whoever saw it there once was lying to you.

There’s too many ideas in your head
Too many grand feelings with emotions that can’t be put into words
And not enough concrete to solidify it
There’s no point in continuing.
They’ll just laugh, you know. They’ll read what you have to say and tune out their ears.
The writing is garbage
It’s terrible
It’s uninspired
It lacks the je ne sais quoi
The kind of thing that needs to be had and not taught
The kind of thing that you thought you had, once, but now don’t think so at all.

Nobody else thinks so either
So what are you going to do about it?
You’ve wasted too many hours of your life,
Written too many thousands of words of nonsense
Of pointless nothingness.
You’re past the tipping point.

Keep on writing, I guess,
That’s all you seem to keep doing.
Some people say that once you write enough garbage
Once you dig through enough dirt
You can find gold underneath.
I sure hope that’s what happens,
Because if not then I don’t know what to say to you
I don’t know where you’re gonna go.



Try to write yourself back home.

He reminds me of a mandarin orange,
easy to hold and easy to peel
with a slightly rough yet firm exterior;
sensitive to the cold.

His character is that of the sweet flesh
like his gentle words and actions;
with sour tangs that emerge on rare occasions
like a nudge of loneliness from being homesick.

But his mind and soul are the little seeds buried
deep within the depths of his eyes and his heart:
he stays rooted despite in drought; persevered
and grown to enjoy the fruit of his labor.

There is something about the mandarin and its layers
which bring me much more than luck,
love, and even life.
All of it—he—brings me home.

On that half acre of swamp,
there sits rotting wood, countless species of pests and bothers
history of love, hate, pain, and growth,
there sits a home, a house, a building, full to the brim,
with memories? Impulsive decisions?
Just a lot of "stuff"...

Right off the path the lawn sits untouched,
mossy patches, clovers and thatch, weeds and flowers,
ever since i was little they've been there,
ever since i was little Iv'e had such luck,

What happens when they sell that property, does the stuff go to waste?
That "stuff" was born of waste and now when i need luck the most, winters frost sinks those clovers much like the "stuff" in the ditch down the road,
But does my luck sink as well? Or will it grow and bloom next spring into something greater?