6/25/18

Moon shines light on the shadowy abyss of wood and lichen
Dreamy images of a stream
flowing by the chance of gravity in this monstrous matrix of woodland figures and moss
Dancing through the negative space between silhouettes of trees
I share my breath with the lives of the wilderness
Through every inhale, I hear the words of the heart-aching creatures whispered in my ear
Every exhale are the dying breaths
Distance feels close, and there’s comfort in the wild silence
The woodland figures favor my light over Luna’s
And every dying breath is the rebirth of new life

The Wolves Versus Those Beating Hearts of Ours

February 19, 2018

Can you feel it through the city smog?
Of course you can!
This is all vibration
And nothing against the city
But the smog could not kill these thoughts
And the thoughts come in waves that
Emanate toward your heart

And I am all flailing limbs when I speak with intentions to love you,
And clammy hands

And you are all
gentle stroking of my hair
And loving touches of my spine

And I crave to rip into the muses of your brain
The way a werewolf would rip into your heart
But I am no werewolf
And you are no prey

And together we are two people
Sharing bits of soul and purpose
And it hurts so much to love you so hard

I could write all the poetry in the world about…

How you look at me the same way my grandparents look at each other
With a soft stare and a considerate smile and
I often think about how my grandmother probably never realized he was looking
At the way her eyes glisten at the birds and
The way she sings while folding the laundry and
At the way she grins and points at the thawing snow when
The gardenias first bloom.

I wonder why sometimes you look so terribly sad when you take my face in your palms
And maybe it’s just the longing or possibly
Even the smoke that lingers in the basement
But I feel just as wistful as I am in love.

I could write all the poetry in the world about you.
The way your eyes crinkle when I pout at you
The way your laugh sounds like we’re under water
How your hands represent strength but how your palms hold care

And there comes a point where I simply stop writing
Because every string of words cannot tell the story soft enough
Or strong enough
Or with enough passion

I could write all the poetry in the world about you
If I could just as easily spend an eternity attempting to place the words messily together

A Lover Named ‘Luna’

Outside the lunette-shaped window
Glowing silver from within
She shimmers with such radiance
No other can compare to

I gaze
Into the ethereal light
With awe written in scripture
Behind my eyes

She flirts with a soft smile,
A warm gaze,
A silver glow

The night sky encompasses her withered face
With its eggplant color–
Navy blue and purple

She shines like crushed velvet
And the temperature is
Crisp and dark–
Void of saturated color
Like frosted eucalyptus

She sits with grace and ease
Even in an abyss of dark,
She glows onward–
Unconditional light.

Nostalgia is a filthy liar

7/18/17

Sometimes the old lovers creep in
Like ivy on trellis
The could haves, the should haves

And sometimes they burn
Like smoke in my lungs that I cannot
Cough

And sometimes they ache
Like a sore inside my cheek

And sometimes they sting
Like the sore that never healed
The one you keep chewing at
Until it bleeds crimson

Sometimes the new lovers swing
Dancing with you with
Effortless breeze and
Whimsy
Light on your feet

Their only side effects are joy
But sometimes
Naivety

My mother tells me I’m
“Naïve”
As of late

I couldn’t agree less

For I am just
Living with ease
With fun in my heart

A heart a little bit much
For some

Sometimes it burns,
Sometimes it aches,
Sometimes it stings.

But it beats on and on
And the burns heal,
The aches dull,
The stings soothe.

Maybe it’s ‘just’ poetry, but I’ve done my job

Sometimes you write about things that don’t make sense. Sometimes you have to live in the poetry to write it. Sometimes you live the story itself, and sometimes the story lives inside you. I write to give my fellow sufferers a piece of myself that makes them feel…not so alone. Even if the words I write aren’t always true, they’re never false. I write the words people need to read. I write them so my friends can hear themselves inside it. If you get lost in a poem, the poet has done their job. It’s their only birthright to put into words something someone else cannot say. It’s not to make sense, or even to sound poetic. Just to make it mean something to someone, not even anyone in particular.