Fingers up,
grasping at bubbles;

Why do I always
fight for air?

i love like a mangled dog,
rummaging through the grimiest corners
for some sort of semblance
of tranquility disguised as chaos

fangs constantly bared
but ceaselessly yearning
to be a subject of someone’s affection

tell me,
how do i stop loving like this?
contorted. star-eyed. gullible.

tell me,
how do i stop being loved
with anything but love?

until then,
i’ll still wait for you by the porch
tied on a leash too close to my pulse.

i’ll keep on waiting.
(when) are you coming back?
are you coming back?

Prose and Poetry
  came together

In a marriage of
  infusion

—each wanting from the other
     what they could not bring

—each vowing to the other
    words they longed to sing

Birthing a new music
  of epic proportion

In an infant now timeless
  beyond simple refrain

—with a message for the ages
    wrapped in lyrical rhyme

—in a melody of sages
    defying space and time

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)

love
feathers
the
nest of
the
soul
with
clarity

Your wrists are clean,
but the water is stained.

Your face says happy
but your eyes say pain.

-you're starting to exist more in my writings than in my reality

So a seed planted
in winter
shall bear no fruit
Neither shall a bear
hibernate in spring.

There must be preparations
along with fruition or
supplementation.
Season's predestination.

After flower has blossomed
it's beauty finally discovered,
plucked from its roots
so snug, so secure.

Seasons change once,
and twice over.
Years to follow

Now stands a new
sprout, rearing it's neck.
Hopeful for tomorrow,
its future bright.

The new sprout turns
into a tree,
teaming with fruit.
All of these new beginnings
plenty of possibilities.

Brought along,
when one fruit
torn from it's branch
was planted in fertile
soil.