February bites down—
wind with a switchblade edge,
sky like the underbelly of something dead,
clawing at a season that turns its back,
half-winter, half-wishbone,
stuck in the throat of the year.

Sidewalks crack like dry lips.
Trees wear loneliness like a borrowed skin—
bare, brittle, bracing for something
that never arrives.

The sky stays gray,
an unanswered text.
Days sink like forgotten receipts in my tote,
asking things I can’t answer,
whispering, Didn’t you think you’d feel different by now?
Didn’t I?

The cold is a debt I keep paying in shivers,
in chapped hands, in mornings that taste like spoiled perfume
and dreams of other cities, where I wake up panting,
where I breathe out his name like an epiphany,
and let my eyes sigh closed like a prayer.

I walk through the days like a half-lit hallway,
never sure what I’m looking for,
never sure I’ll find it.

I forget what my hands were made for.
I press my palm against the frost-bitten glass,
just to prove I’m still warm-blooded.

February unspools, soft and slow,
a ribbon of time that never quite ties into a bow,
a breath held too long in a house too small.

And I—
I stand at the edge of the month like a skipped stone,
almost ready to sink, almost ready to fly,
caught in the soft ache of almost,
in the half-light of wanting.

March will come like an answer
to a question I don’t remember,
but tonight, February lingers—
a ghost-limbed thing,
a name I still chase in the dark,
leaving me unfinished,
half-written,
half-here.

Patiently                                                        ­                                        Too
And                  ­                                                                 ­                   Long
Fortune                                  ­                                                         Fortune
Will                                                     ­                                                   May
Find      ­                                                                 ­                                Pass
You                                                         ­                                              Right
Free                                                       ­                                                    By
You                                                           ­                                              You
From                                                         ­                                             And
Poverty's       ­                                                                 ­                        You
Reeking                              ­                                                                 ­  Will
Chains                                                      ­                                              Fail
Again         ­                                                                 ­                             To
Alas                                                          ­                                          Notice      
If                                                              ­                                            When
You             ­                                                                 ­                                It
Wish                          ­                                                                 ­           Slips      
And                                       ­                                                              Away

i sit there in my lifeless, cold, grey room,
the rain taps on my window religiously.
the mist of the newly brewed tea rises,
as the dull brown liquid stains the white porcelain cup.

i sit there thinking, dreaming.
thinking, dreaming of what could be.
thinking, dreaming of what will be.
i think and dream of suffering and of relief.
i think and dream of failures and of success.
i think and dream of monstrosity and of perfection.
i sit there thinking and dreaming.

the grey intensifies, overwhelms, and dominates,
every speck of grey aims to blind and to bind me.
the objects of my thoughts and dreams become reality.
monsters and angels seep out of the corner walls.

nothing is all i can do.
but sit.
thinking.
dreaming.
waiting to be devoured.

life on the blue screen
been there done that waiting for
all magnificent

Time passes as my name must be a long gone Memory
Stars die out, as you must tire from my apology
A singular, repetitive one, in a hope you say Hello one day
That we meet again, you look my way, and for one time to say
"I love you."

Constantly seen messages, Constant messenger pigeons
They console me, gently chide, tell me to let be
Yet every time it blurs my vision
That the prospect to becoming a lover and father one day
is tearing me apart

To use my youth denies accountability, blame others ruins my integrity, To say my mouth had enough, disregards the truth
My words followed the dark path my heart made, My youth turned adult
Can time, that heals wounds, still turn me into captivity
Where my own bedroom feels like a peaceful prison?


Can it be so easy to hate everyone, and wish they'd die?
Even the ones I love who I wish expire and live in the sky?
That my begging, tearful nature, is a crutch, and turns my fleeting independence
To a childish dependence
On others to send you messages I wish I could do myself

I believe God will bring her back, and bring me peace
But do I deserve such a charitable Deed?
I pray, cry and hope indeed
That his divined intervention intercedes

That a measly 7 months of silence
Can never compare to an eternity where death doesnt guarantee our souls meet
Tested by my patience
Willing to lose the sheep and honey bees of this world
For the bunny I sold away in anger

I keep my phone close to me to see if you wrote me
I put my phone away to keep myself from waiting
But my head keeps thinking about your next text