Sat upon clay colored cushions
In the breadth of foreign land
two young men and a boy
listen in,
to Spanish TV

Mosquitos hover intently
upon warm humid air
lowering to replenish
with itchy precision

Flowery aromas,
of fruit-scaped hills
pour through parted Windows
of 13 glass panes  

a white sock and a black sock
the moment feels the same
still typing
trying to find,
my purpose here

It’s a winter’s day
And the cold bites harder
Than his words
You wonder what made you
As fragile as the ice
Beneath your feet
As you, too, crack
Under the pressure
Break, when you’re
Stepped on
You try to make a snowball
With your calloused hands
But they’ve been through
Too many fights
And weapons can’t hold
Such delicate things
So you can only watch
As the water slips through
Your trembling fingers
Just as his love slips out
Of your troubled mind

I'm so sick and disgusted of writing every poem
                                                    about you.
                                       It brings me close to hatred,
                                  but that is an emotion I don't believe
                                                          In.

The beginning of the end should begin with you,
but you're not the end of the adventure,
you're the only scene in a never-ending love story.

He stood on the "Endless Bridge" in Guthrie Theater,
And looked onward at the old abandon mill district of Minneapolis.

The crescent moon ascended to the glimmer of the city lights
As the nature of the wind pulled his hair back to shed his hidden soul.

The Mississippi River clash against the pavements of the dam,
And the moist from the river felt through the air on the pours of the skin.

Neon lights of the 35W reminded the contemporary architect of modern city,
But the old mill district had it's ever so present among the modern buildings.

In that silence she walked down the aisle from the theater entry onto the balcony,
The silent graceful walk even in heels like a prey of the jungle,
There she stood next to him to reach her arm around his.

He glanced onto her face matching his eyes to her's,
And she pulled the most warm honest smile of innocence.

Upon his gaze upon her dark glistened navy blue dress,
With golden neckless he gave her as their anniversary gift,
And pearl earring illuminated the moon light of nightly beauty.

"You look majestic," barely able to mutter as he faced her side by side,
And his back against the solid balcony wall.

Standing on Buchannan trying to write a line
Listening to my favourite person 'shine'
Friday night friends doing all sorts of lines
That irresponsible drug scene just isn't mines
Never know, one day it won't be 'fine'
Especially when your putting your life up for grabs
It's slowly approaching quarter to nine
Someone pass me the ****** wine
The thought of alcohol is surely a sign
That I'm alive, the future will be absolutely fine
Looking back, I wish I'd done that ****** line!

In a dream I was walking, all alone.
A flower; I saw-

                             off in the distance..

it was all alone, like me.

I do not get paid to be an extra
in someone's story. The director
does not offer me notes or cues
on when to interact with the other characters.
I am only there, standing alone
eyes darting around for a subject to speak with.
Even the antagonist drops their sight. The other extras
barely glances at me. Their role is just the same as mine,
but they're hoping they'll outshine me. They brush shoulders,
fingers, as they bump against the crowd.
I remain invisible, lingering in the background,
waiting for my scene to arrive. Ready for a line
in the script. Anxious to be a first choice for once.
No matter how loud I scream that I have yet to tell my story, they will not notice me.
And I know the other dying extras are told the same thing-
write your own script. Make your own production.
Pitch ideas until one sparks, and that becomes your entity.
But it is hard to see that the girl in red
is pushed all the way in the back of the white sea unwillingly.