We do what we must,
Just as leaves fall in autumn,
We live and breathe green,
To avoid this, “rock bottom.”
An imaginary line,
A figment created,
By those donning diamonds,
Coin and life, traded.

We do what we, must,
We fall into line,
Moments to dirt,
We’ve just not enough time.
Then while laying in wait,
To be taken as dust,
We wish we’d have lived,
Not done what we, must.

We lived for a thing,
Never strived to be free,
Then questioned the leaves,
Why they fell from the tree.
There’s places I know,
Where trees never shed,
You’d see them too,
If you lost, must from your head.


Heart Thoughts

“Love,” is just a word,
Little meaning lies beneath,
But an “L,” said with the tongue,
And a “V,” said with the teeth.

Instead, say that she’s a painting,
Full of colors, still unknown,
Draped softly on your skin,
In your heart and through your bones.

Say that she’s a cloud,
Close to touch, and yet, so far,
Her mind is bathed in etchings,
From nights dreaming with the stars.

She’s the moon across a black sky,
Small but shone so bright,
Her reflection cast, but lightly,
With admiration, in your eyes.

She’s a snowflake in the winter,
Not another is alike,
And a dark field in the summer,
Lit up by fireflies.

She’s the eye inside the storm,
All around you is laid waste,
Only she can still the currents,
That you, yourself, have made.

She’s the echo of a porch swing,
Her head upon your chest,
Before her was all right,
But she and your heart are now the left.

She’s a poem left unwritten,
On a blank and crumpled page,
An indescribable perfection,
That leaves your paper still unchanged.

See, love should be expressed,
Spilt in art or dust to dust,
To speak love with mediocrity,
Is to nurture it with rust.


Black paint fills the corner,
Of a small forgotten room,
Scattered, shattered glass around,
To ensure not many will pass through.

No wind to sway the curtains,
Of the windows, busted out,
A musty stench sweeps over,
Like an old, abandoned house.

The once fresh hardwood floors,
Now creak with age and use,
Stained with cold neglect,
An irrevocable, stolen youth.

Concealed beneath a worn, silk sheet,
A record player hums,
Spinning, skipping, static noise,
The music now unsung.

This is but a single space,
In an expansive, mansion still,
Each room a story, dark and light,
Some you’ve not seen and never will.

Tonight I lay among the dust,
Of my record room, confined,
Comfort in the peeling paint,
In this corner of my mind.

Bled Dry

I’ve not tasted poison sweeter,
Than his name upon my lips,
My eyes, they know a secret,
That when I sleep I dream of his.
From tongue to fingertips,
My control is but consumed,
If arsenic was his love,
I’d have drank the bottle through.

My mind, it screams in madness,
As my heart yells out in pain,
This pull toward him collapses,
My every artery and vein.
For just one thought to have him,
Splits me clean through at the seams,
My ribs cracked open, heart exposed,
Parts he was never meant to see.

4 months

He silences the voices,
Caught in the bustle of their lives,
Her demons start to still,
Her sunken heart begins to rise.
If she only had one moment,
This feeling would be it,
No star could shine as brilliant,
As the words lost on her lips.

The fire in his frozen stare,
Is little distance from his soul,
She knows something of a fairytale,
A broken heart becoming whole.
No sooner than it came to be,
This euphoria will fade,
She’ll accept eventually,
One of them will have to look away.


She’s just a dandelion,

Wanted for a wish,

Used and then forgotten,

You breathe her seeds a kiss.

Such beauty in that moment, though,

As she flies through sky and sun,

And plants herself for more to see,

For a dandelion’s never one.

Many see her beauty,

As the wind takes her even further,

But soon they only see a weed,

And then set out to hurt her.

But what could be more perfect,

Than a field of unwished wishes?

Where once they thought her magic,

They now think her malicious.

She thought she was a flower,

But people always saw a weed,

As she gave them all she had to give,

Their wishes from her seeds.

She lives in fitful sorrow,

Only wanted for a time,

Used and then forgotten,

They say, “she’s just a dandelion.”

Bleeding Heart

Though I know that I’m no artist,
Your portrait would be art,
The center, there, your open sleeve,
Where lies your bleeding heart.
Amidst the dripping wreckage,
A light would shine clean through,
Breaking up the darkness,
Where once a fury grew.

Now in this scene, a crippled tree,
Stands alone in its resilience,
Against a raging lightning storm,
Firing in the distance.
It takes the strikes, then settles,
Prepared to hit the ground,
But no mere break, from trunk to limb,
Could ever take it down.

Standing back, my canvas,
Is a book with tattered pages,
Longer than it was before,
Growing as it ages.
Filled with stories, loves and loss,
But not of all despair,
Songs of all the breaths you took,
And those you begged for air.

What beauty in a portrait,
Havoced by such pain,
That light would beam so brightly,
Through stories pumping through your veins.


Though the arson was thwarted,
You still saw my flame,
As I burned for you, lonely,
A disaster, you tamed.

It didn’t take much,
For your voice to settle,
My pain, boiled over,
Through hot, blackened metal.

Still I sit in the water,
The truth scorched on my skin,
Its me against her,
In a fight I won’t win.


Bearing down, I tell myself,
That I must not float away,
But with a young heart’s flutter,
I begin to lose this weight.

Though I attempted caution,
I could not anticipate,
Falling lightly toward you,
Just to watch you turn away.

I cannot say I blame you,
But I only wanted wings,
Gravity has been cruel to me,
My heart pulled through my feet.

I ran back to the comfort,
Of the weight that I’d forgotten,
Added to it’s tons now,
Is the smile I’d been lost in.

Never have I changed this part,
Still I call it a regression,
So I keep on simply adding weight,
Proof I’ve never learned my lesson.