Forever in search of being entranced
by the way a person observes
the universe with closed eyes.
I throw away depths unseen
by lovers found before
an understanding of the self
became ingrained within the soul.
An unreliable narrator
has not the right to judge,
yet still I see myself
disrupting a sense of love
while I go look for more.



I color myself with disillusionment
with each inking of my skin
–desperately searching for my soul,
bleeding between bold lines.
As I draw nearer to the surface
I swiftly break to pieces;
fitting forcefully together,
a chaotic organism,
unfit for being whole.
I walk closer to the brink
to look over the abyss
–the soul I’ve been escaping
whenever my mind shifts.

“Just Breathe”

I have stopped breathing.
Despite too many years of chanting:
Just breathe
Just breathe
Just breathe
every few breaths
to quell this heart’s stampeding.
Stumbling thoughts,
fleeting fears appearing
then, retreating for a moment
in between each breath.
Behind distracted thoughts
a moment exists
as if I were trying
to remember each
and every detail,
I am not.

Black Hole

I fell off the face of the earth
–it hurt.
Climactic as anything could be
I pick up the pieces gingerly
delicate egg shells
holding onto a being
haphazard and awake.
Bursting against gravity
and slowly succumbing
bent on imploding.
A star left to supernova–
I am the black hole
disguised in the aftershocks
unintentional hiding
biding time
before becoming me again.

Levels of Tension

There are levels of tension
left in shoulders,
put upon by considerate folk
who understand
one more burden
is never too much to bear
for the hardened survivor
of minor turmoil–
seemingly adept
at handling stress,
we sit in the corner
with pretty smiles fixed
on cracked faces
which cast no reflections
no matter the distance
from the sorry expressions
we each have escaped

Star Stuff

If we are made of star stuff,
why are we so small
when held up to the night sky?
We hold the might of planets
in our bones and muscles and skin
–a slightly different composition
but still, here we sit,
staring up
wondering where we come from
whenever we are under the moon.
There are secrets in the galaxy
of the future and all it holds
we can only hope to find ourselves
while our eyesight remains so bold.

7 a.m.

I would like to call the period in which I write a “happy medium”

being neither too manic or depressed to find the net of a correct size

to catch the fireflies of thoughts who die out if I think too hard

while I’m extremely happy or on the edge of a cliff I don’t remember climbing

in order to find the correct perspective on my most humbling pursuit

which I never meant to start, I’m still running without meaning

trying to keep my thoughts still, as I’m quaking in the wake of truths

spilt on the counter of youth, caught up in stale beer

which helped to calm the nausea you never told anyone of

except the ex who knew there were twins, however, both ended together.

Now I sit here waiting, hoping for clarity and a dash of depression

As happiness is not a medium to write in.