The battle done,

Remaining combatants one,

Gazing up to the gray cloak,

Tailored to the palace of the moon,

Threatened only by the ever-fading emissaries,

Of the ailing sun.



Each a perfect sentinel,

Of solar prowess technical.

The ceasefire teased opposite

By the lunar composite,

Of that sweeping cloak,

Choked,

Where the moon once woke.

Neither one nor other,



As if my breath could the life

Of either titan smother.

I wake up on a restful Saturday morning
5 DAYS 6 HOURS
my phone with another wake up warning
5 DAYS 5 HOURS 45 MINUTES
I settle at the table for a modest meal
5 DAYS 5 HOURS 10 MINUTES
finding a ripe banana to peel
5 DAYS 5 HOURS
I steady myself at my impromptu home
5 DAYS 4 HOURS 30 MINUTES
the bright screen in monochrome
5 DAYS 4 HOURS
the words on the page leading me astray
5 DAYS 3 HOURS
as the time simply flies away
5 DAYS 2 HOURS
with pen and pad I get to work
5 DAYS 2 HOURS
scribbling like a listless clerk
5 DAYS 1 HOUR 30%
my mental state in steep decline
5 DAYS 30 MINUTES 30%
living to a deadline

Time makes the heart grow fonder,
As the ropes of friendship fray,
I know that thoughts will wander,
Despite what good intentions say,

As places remembered,
Now places long forgotten,
Each experience membered,
By memory gone rotten

With miles and miles,
Between once good friends,
Thousands of styles,
And more wasted weekends.

Despite all of a life’s resistance,
I hope we all can close the distance

Genius has been thrown around
But it never hits the mark
Madness has a better sound
For the creative spark

My skills are artistic
And I paint in still life
My canvas is realistic
And my materials are rife

Ive been called a madman
For my creative eye
Would I be a bad man,
For letting my spirit fly?

My genius will be realized
With a contented sigh
My work forever immortalized
When I let the blood dry

Negative B plus or minus the square root of Y are we
toiling ceaselessly at a moving metric held to a key?
Cant they see we long for ludicrous dreams of what has yet to be?
Please feel free to cautiously calculate lives on your PC.

I simply want to take an altogether frivolous jaunt
Through the gaunt valley only in search of a singular croissant
I wish to flaunt my flag high, over the skyscraper’s pristine font.
I will taunt the authority of all of boredom’s confidants.

I am inundated with risks and dangers understated
To a concentrated masses that are always obligated
To be unsated by the life they are designated.
Translated and transcribed as numbers so shortly graduated
I am terrified of the chance that I am miscalculated.

From deep within, all of our souls begin,
With unweighted steps from the shallow breaths,
Of every race our young hope was to win,
Against any of the James, Marys or Beths.

From deep inside, we try so hard to hide
All the insecurities we suppressed.
In every person we hope to confide
In how we are exterior obsessed,

From deep inward, all the steps we have heard,
From all the mentors we once could have known,
Tweet just a beat louder than the blue bird.
Right here is where all of our fear has grown.

After passing over the peak of mirth,
We sit humble again for our rebirth

Honk.
I flinch at the noise,
Staring straight at the alloys,
Of the behemoths stopping m…
HOonk.
Stopping me from reaching my destination.
The journey that forms the foundation,
Of the treadmill walking m…
HoOonk.
Walking me in baby steps
Just so that the next,
Class I take could let m…
HoOoOonk
Let me live my life
And be free from this strife.
Let me move forward instead of
HoOoOo…
Being stuck in traffic.

I write.

But Why?

Because I must?

I have to?

I want to?

I must, deep inside, have to want to.

I want not to write because I have to,

Yet I must write because I want to,

Yet I write with pen, key, pad, and spacebar.

I hate writing the most when I must write little,

Yet I Must want to write when I want to write much.

Now, when much is written, and little from me,  

Is it still poetry?

If written for no one yet everyone,

Or layered between that which is not me

That which is not human

That which can only see,

The words themselves and translate to action.

Not inspire, but cause.

Where once I wrote to uplift that most complicated machine,

Now I dictate to the most powerful,

Yet least imaginative.

Least want.

Because I want to do.

Writing is doing,  

Insofar as it is creating,

But I must write.

Yet I have to write.

Yet after writing to the machine,

I must write to myself.

Both in meter and constraint,

And both absolute.

One must be correct,

One must be perfect.

One must work,

One must do.

I am responsible for the machine,

Yet I am the writing.

Thus, I must have to write.

I must want to.

But I must make myself

Want to must have to write.

Velvet shrouds my chest,
or silver binds my neck
Either servant like the rest,
Or one who holds them at his beck,
Either a King at his best,
Or he who shines his deck.

I admire the feel of velvet cloth,
The esteem of shining silver,
The markers of a life eased in sloth,
Or one fought for on a sliver.
A life survived on measly broth,
Or foods only chefs can deliver,

Either one will tell you,
Which one binds them tightest,
On the silver will they sell you,
But it bears on them the lightest,
King or servant will do,
Struggling with the slightest.

The only weight worse than the gavel,
Is that of the satin,
For news of it will travel,
Even to the heights of Manhattan,
For the silver will not bevel,
Nor will it read you the Latin,
the velvet will force you to level,
With the weights you’ve tried to flatten.

My quill set for the page,

Yet my mind’s eye is upstaged,

Betwixt them sits a wall,

But here no war shall be waged,



I search for beauty and pathos,

Yet my aperture gathers only stone,

If the barrier were to give itself kudos,

For having left my page all alone



But to think of the possibility,

That the wall itself but not a writer,

That the curvature of the laden brick,

Creates a paradox of the block.