The Door

some walls are


some doors

need their locks,

some words speak

much louder when

we cannot even







I cheated: this poem is a repost 🤷‍♂️


Don’t Play the Game

I hate for you to see me like this–

not weak, but vulnerable.

You may wonder what the difference is

and to be honest,

maybe there’s not much of one:

I would be just fine

with a kick or ten when I’m down.

I’m weak, you know that.

But for you to see that a stray word

richocheted and grazed

this heart I try to hide on my sleeve,

wounding me,

would break me.

I’m not strong, you know that.

Is it pride? I don’t know.

I’m just sorry you had to see this.

Let me rest my eyes,

lay down my head;

you can throw me out with the trash

come morning.

I’m vulnerable, didn’t you know?


Something in the Air

Other things would make more sense,

would work out more, be far less tense,

and still I’m reaching for a star

to fit a hollowed puzzle’s scar,

to cauterize my wounded heart

by poisoned lips disguised as art







Started writing a new story, which sounds great until I think about all the other unfinished ones. Also, this will probably be a busy week so you’ll get one of two extremes: either I’ll be procrastinating and spending too much time here or I might potentially disappear for a few days. Seems there is no middle ground 🙂

Have a good week either way!


Breaking the Ice

It’s not that I don’t care

but that

even the languages

we all share in these poetic words

are delicate mirrors

into ourselves and others–

it serves a purpose, let’s us see within,

but it’s imperfect, not quite accurate,

and the slightest disturbance

can shatter it into deadly shards.

It’s not that I don’t care

but that

I get excited to share my imperfect words

and break the thin ice instead.


Intimate Definition

I’m cautious using certain words

when crafting poems

since I have heard repeatedly

how great of a “love poem”

a certain piece is.

But friend,

aren’t they all love poems?

Who ever set in stone

that each one was and had to be

one of romantic love?

Are we not allowed friendship

in this vale of tears?

Are we not able to enjoy

the company of others

without the burning of flesh?

Aren’t all poems about love and lost love?

You can change its meaning

but it will not change;

love or leave

the intimate definitions.


The Ailment and the Remedy

I always thought that it would be easy

to run out of words

to convey a single theme,

a single idea,

a single person from

the endless crowds.

I thought it would be easy

and I thought that I’d forget you.

I thought a lot

but it was nothing at all

while the subjects spoke freely

without my help.

I thought it would be easy to stop

yet I can’t seem to separate

the pen from the paper

even when–or even especially when–

I want to.

Good or bad, come what may . . .

I write


Where They’ve Been

I knew that I loved you–

no question of when . . .

like when you were dancing

with words through your pen,

when the paper lit up

like flames with no fire,

when the smokeless smoke rose

yet even higher,

when the clouds formed above

through smoke and through haze,

when the words came back down

completely unfazed,

when I saw them dancing

back home once again,

and you looked happy

when beaming your grin . . .

I knew that I loved you–

no question of when–

even though they’re just words

you know where they’ve been






I’m posting this here because both were inspired by the same song. I usually write specific inspirations in the tags but if I’ll give non-existent points fo you if you can guess it.

Hint 1: it’s an older song.

Hint 2: it destroyed a few pianos on the Looney Tunes 😄


Add title

Start writing…

but what?

Where do I draw the line

between the words

and the inspiration?

Will they know

what I’m saying

when I don’t always know


Maybe if I cut the line

instead of drawing it

then there would be

room for change.

Start writing…

and tiptoe

through your mind,

stomping with

evasive words


Fame and Infamy

Fame and infamy

are separated

by prefix and action,

one thing leads to another

as the dominos fall together

at the quaking earth.

What happened to the heroes?

They were never heroes.

What happened to the villains?

They were never villains.

What happened to the average folks

who lived average lives

in average times?

They were always average.

A prefix, an action,

a word or two,

a new generation torn between

fame and infamy–

shaken to their very core.