I have several names.

My first was the name
my mother wielded,
but she later conceded
I had an earlier name,
a longer name
that my father gave me,
a name borrowed
from the long dead,
the name authorities
would know me by.

And later, you adorned me
with shorter, snappier names -
names loaded with love
names that could be sung
and in which I took comfort
and pride.

When as a student I arrived,
wheeling cases through customs,
I saw the linguistic gymnastics
reflected in their eyes
but I kept silent and smiled,
lest they felt they fell short
lest they sensed that I found fault
in their command
of each element of my name.

But the truth is I hold
my true names elsewhere,
in my place of song and friendships
far from these shores.

I have several names
and accumulate more each year
as I spare acquaintances
the shame of verbal stumbles.

I have several names,
but I know who I am
with you.

Am I the way I think, the way I dress,
Or the way I speak?
Or am I defined by the way
I broke my own heart through rotten adversities?

Am I kind, am I bitter, or am I stuck in between?
Does everyone remember the ways I hurt them
Or the ways I healed?
Am I shaped by my destiny
Or by the paths I carve myself?
Will I make a difference,
Or will my life just quietly pass?

Am I the things I hate, am I the things I love?
Am I the things I do, or the things I think of?
Am I the words I write or the scenes I paint?
What happens if I stay? What happens if I go?

When they look at me, do they see a face or a heart?
Am I the way I spurn or the way I laugh?

Am I this? Am I that?
I am a thousand things,
everything plays a part.

The fields of gold—
Looking grave
as past faces
caught up quickly,
smothering any presence
with smoldering reminders.

Alas, the echelons of memories
stood tall, like soldiers
steadfast, unwavering
to the imminent fall.

They remind him of his reflection,
belabored by reality’s labor.
Lines buried in sand,
etched onto his head—
burning coals of souls
that throttle his legs into motion.

He runs, and runs,
coerced to send the sun
his kinetic aspirations,
to deflect and reflect,
to dissolve prophecies beleaguered.

For it is he
who devises the Devil
of his own doing.

True depth of pain one cannot claim,
Until they’ve walked through sorrow’s flame.
To feel its weight, to understand,
One must be touched by life’s own hand.

misspoke.
made a
mistake. am
too much space.
want to erase &
retrace my steps. can't
face myself in the mirror
every word, an error.
stumble like
a drunk
with shoulders shrunk
over what to say

should i
shut up? you've
had enough

Pale pink petals dipped in blood
surround my yellow crown
  and painstakingly painted stigmata.
A  fragile, fragrant DNA poem
  perfectly expressed.
An immaculate lily – not a failed rose.