Maybe if we kiss with every touch, breathe,
and sense — we could fall in love
Maybe if we hold hands with those tips
of fingers aglow — we could fall in love
Maybe if we made eye contact, feeling safe
by every saved memoir in an eye’s glance of
view — we could… finish each other’s sentences

Maybe if we bought a dog, to give an excuse
for all our questionable pet names — we could
say it’s a way to disrupt people’s curiosities
Maybe if we bought a house, to imagine the
very future we’d move into — we could rent
out our hopes to afford it all

Maybe if we slipped a coy glance in each’s
direction — we wouldn’t have to be quietly
imagining it all

[Hermit]
/ˈhɝmɪt /
A recluse; someone who lives alone and shuns human companionship.

One last promise of a kiss; but who hears the words of
someone’s misplaced lips— Memories are all archived, those
experiences, a treasure to bury deep in the chambers of a heart
And any extra time: an excuse for me to procrastinate…how I
choose to express my reasoning, is an explanation for another day

for the all the memories we had, will all remain locked away
our experiences a treasure I’ll never get the pleasure to
saviour in their worth. and any reason to chase after them
all in a day, becomes the procrastination of tomorrow…
our story ends here

In a thin book of divination; the conclusion of a love
that had the fill of a loaf of bread- here we are- with the
crumbs, holding onto what’s left. There is no grasping it.
All climaxes eventually fall into the obscurity of being
an old familiar harmony; the laughs of many, soon becomes
the quit chuckles of one who sits later alone. And all joyous
songs must play their very last chord

anticlimactic will be the story of us, painfully laughing ourselves
to sleep— those fortunate enough to sing our once beautiful song-
the words, chords, keys, and harmonies are all gone…
our story ends here

I am something inadequate; a follower to the gun,
the bullet that led me astray in its cold lead. Still don’t
lend me your sorrow; shunning the idea of love
For the gun that killed a benevolent concern, was
a gun I had pointed at myself.

                                          …Bang!

The past haunts,
The future taunts
Leaving one to be the sorry,
Lowly, lonely,
Monkey in the middle amongst the what-nots
I'm not a fan of this short story of hollow dots and vague plots
One man's constant nightmarish thoughts
Are anothers breaking point spots

©2024

In a world
That makes no sense
I feel like a book
I don't understand
Language is foreign
My chapters incoherent
Mixed up
I love my Title
My cover art
Illustrations are grand
But my story
Makes no sense
Is this how my story
Will always seem?
Will I ever learn
How to read your story
If unable to know my own?
Needing to look up my small
Words
To understand your bigger words
Somehow
Someday
I may
Understand
I just hope it won't be
My last words

This humble pie
Is more like a shiit sandwich on rye
With a side of sty
Now there's a plank firmly implanted in each pink eye
Life's painful, but I'm suppose to be too mocho to cry
No one knows how many times I've wanted to die
Or the number of times I gave it a good ol' college try
Who do you think I am... no really, who am I
I think I'm my own stories fall guy
Fall back on the lie
That I can fix it all with a slipknot neck tie
What's more influential? Good or evil
In my experience it's surely a tie
But between you and I
The devil has more pull that the "infallible" eye in the sky
Call 'em both out, see who stops by
Or even bothers to reply
My money's on the pitchfork guy


©2024