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Inauguration Day

Inauguration Day



Wailing winds carry forth the sound

Of Empires past burning down;

They’re buried deep beneath the ground,

Sharing tombs with skeletons dispersed

Throughout our history, but in this mall

Stories of buried

Empires before us fall

On deaf ears.


Silent, I wait in the park

On Inauguration Day.

Gray skies are falling;

Weeping for a fool’s parade.


The crowd bow their heads;

Red hats wear white anger,

Worshiping false-prophet’s rancor,

Controls relented to Wall Street bankers.


In the trees, I hear their whispers,

And in their seeds, a disparate mixture.

Hold for pity and for grace,

Hold for all in broken faith.

Wave to soldiers beyond the gates,

Ask them if they know that they’re dying.


Fanatics kneel as the whistle-blows,

Echoing the strangest prose.

See Spring rise from the streets below,

See the early sun, the yellow rose,

Toppling the golden towers,


Gather here at midnight hour

To usher in the turning flowers,

The wiser half will turn and run.

Why has no one told them that they’re dying?


I Wrote This Song For You

I Wrote This Song for You



I wrote this for song you.


I hope you didn’t have me confused

with someone who throws moments like this away. 


While I have your attention, 

there’s oh-so-much I’d like to say.


What if I told you that when you smile,

I feel compelled to do the same?


Or, what if I told you, that when it snows I’m happy 

because I’ve seen your face glow while the white-crystals fall 

softly above you on the trees.


I don’t normally like the snow, but these days 

you have me swearing that I do. 


What if I told you that your almond eyes 

have my heart jumping every time

they catch mine?


That your voice grooves

through my ears

like a snake charmer’s song.


Or, that your touch on my arm 

turns the air electric.


What if I told you I love 

the way clouds of smoke move 

cursive from your lips?


Smooth as the rhythm of your hips 

dancing in the moonlight. 


What if I told you that I’m feeling 

especially honest tonight?


The Universe is but a Network of Interdependent Probabilities.



Yet, here you stay, in practice acting more 

like inevitability—

one from which I can not escape. 


You may feel like impossibility, 

but as sure as I’m still breathing, 

my thoughts will create reasons to return to you. 


I know that each time I wake, 

the rush of you is waiting, sworn 

to grace my head with silly notions 

of our escaping with each other, 

but then soon after, I’ll recover myself—

I should know by now that love is no good for my health.


Still, you’ll have my heart racing, 

I should probably tell you about the affection 

that’s baiting me, but I’m not sure that’s a conversation 

that I can sell.


So I write it here, in hopes of—well, I don’t know what.


Perhaps this is an illocution. I could give it up to you,

but that would take precise execution. 


Even then it may be no solution, 


more like an illusion than means of absolution, 


more like elusive, barely a beggar’s chance at improving affairs. 


I could dare to let loose and lay my thoughts out in a fusion 

of emphatic rhymes, poetic screeds, epigrammatic lines, 

and dramatic pleas for your constitution. I’d bleed for you, 

leave my heart out bare, leave no room for confusion,

no room for ambiguous conclusions. 

Perhaps doing this will lift the noose 

and disperse these daydreams 

it seems thoughts of you are oft producing.


Even if I hand you this as unrepentant proof 

of how much of my attention you command, 


I can’t imagine that you’ll care.


Still, I’d like to prepare something grand,

it’s my nature to embrace hyperbole. 


To chase dramatic tropes and wear 

them as a cloak in the streets for all to see. 


Oh, how audacious I must be 

to call what I do poetry. 


A Slaver's Curse

Cursed be the country

standing on stolen land.


Cursed now, be that land,

built with sin and slave hands. 


Cursed be the hand

of heathens who cast

a ballot in his name.


Cursed be the name 

of the patriot who didn’t vote. 


Cursed be the voter 

who felt the choices were the same. 


Cursed be the same 

voter now wishing

they had not refrained. 


Cursed just as slavers 

before us, a congruence found

in Rome’s remains.


Cursed be our empire’s reign:

To our fated ruin

we are chained.


Fuck Donald Trump, A Love Letter


Fuck Donald Trump, A Love Letter



Fuck Donald Trump. 

I’ll be the millionth man to say it.

I’ll say it once, 

I’ll say it twice, 

so you won’t need to replay it. 

Fuck Donald Trump,

your hair looks like a bleached skunk,

and your face looks like the leather couch I sunk in to a minute ago

but I hope you know your face isn’t the reason

you ain’t winnin’ this race. 

No, there’s far more there to ensure you lose your case.

You chase Hillary around the stage like a dog 

without a bone, but if you were really a grown man,

you'd stand down.


You’ve lost.

And at what cost? A wave of intolerance and a loss

of civility? At what point do we find the ability to see 

through his vision of hell and in to tranquility? 

He breathes hostility and possibly cocaine too,

who knew being such a vain piece of shit

required a quick fix, chicks don’t really love ya 

cause you’re a fucking dick, so quit whining 

that the game is rigged since your name 

earned you more media spots than your policies 

ever did. You played the game, now they’re trying to wash their hands of the stains

you left behind. I’m sure you’ll find a new business to 

bankrupt or another industry to corrupt when you 

get torched in a few weeks. I hope I speak for most 

of us when I say you’re a creep and I hope 

you lose sleep like you lose elections. 


Go fucking vote. 


Something Minor

Something Minor



Sometimes I wonder 

how someone can have the audacity 

to stand on the edge

of the universe and

declare that they matter. 


It’s a matter of taste, I suppose.

We’re all just matter, I know.


On some level it comforts me 

that we’re nowhere close to the center of this place.


I stare at the stars,

but my gaze is greeted 

by nothing more than 

a constant glimmering apathy. 


For some, 

the idea seems maddening,

insignificance is seen as a sad thing

but I find in my mind that’s not what’s 



in fact I’ll happily claim the opposite is true. 

There’s a thrill in the unknown 

of what’s just out of view, beyond black horizons. 


We strive for something new,

so the skill of climbing the stars

is one we’ll surely use. 


Maybe we’ll start with Mars,

but from there what can we do?


Maybe we are a miracle,

or maybe we’re nothing more than minor minuscule beings,

we pale in comparison to the vast scale of the black horizons,

with endless things 

lying far beyond our ability to be seen. 


Winter's Last Call


Winter’s Last Call



You always said,

“One must have the mind 

for winter” to love the frigid air 

and the biting wind of a season held 

stagnant by the snow


I’ve been cold 

for a long time

now, like 

these trees 

that surround me,

trees bound, 

as I am, by ice. 


I’ve been walking 

for a long time 

now, too. 

I left my home

some time ago,

and I did it 

in search of you.


You loved winter. 


The frigid air, the falling snow,

you didn’t care if 

our bodies froze 

while we lay beneath

the stars of a late-winter sky. 


The road I wander down

glistens in a deceitful December sun.

Winter’s breeze brings 

certain misery. 


It leaves my face tingling, numb.

I hear its howl, a needled- assault 

through leafless 

branches that hang solemnly 

from their respective trees.


I never had the mind for winter.


Views from An Abandoned Room


Views from an Abandoned Room




Shadows circle on the wall

over splattered paint,

with writings scrawled 

in color that bleeds,


I watch drop





I sit alone in this place,

this cave,



I suppose now, it’s home.


The air’s paralyzed 

as stillness is all it knows.

With every breath I feel

the tension in each molecule grow.


They’re tearing me apart,

but I never let it show. 


I hear nothing but 

the beat of

my heart.


It’s far too quiet in here.


There’s a lone window in the room,

and out it I stare, with the silence, I’ll share 

this lonely view. 






I lay in bed,

but it seems dreams won’t greet

me tonight.


I have to wake up at a quarter-to-nine. 

I decipher the time I have left to sleep.

Five hours and




But still,

it matters not.

My mind seems cursed,

and my stomach’s locked. 

The timing couldn’t be worse,

I’ll do all I can to make these thoughts

disperse. I count sheep

like, one,




then I think I hear a knock at the door.

But, it’s just the clock 

reminding me of what’s in store.

If I fall asleep 

in four, 




I’d get four 

hours and twent-

y-two minutes of sleep.

I keep track of every 

second that sneaks past me.

Every time I near sleep 

I hear my heart asking 

for a revolution while my mind

evades persecution.





makes my body restless all-the-more. 

To sleep, 

my head must be divested

from the process but instead,

putting it to rest is a chore. 

The anxiety

grips me to my core.

Replays of the day pour

out of my head on to the floor.

But, if I fall asleep now I’ll get two hours

and four-

teen minutes 

of sleep.

I count


like one,




Please just give me 

this bit of rest,

only then will I be at peace. 


Like Tick, Tick

Like Tick, Tick



The pressure grows,

and my mind implodes.

Like tick,





Where it goes,

lord only knows. 

I’ve got to 

get out 

of this 



My stare stays glued on the clock—

it’s eight past nine,

and I’m stuck in the same spot,

between four walls 

that I can’t seem to climb.


The seconds hand 

marches ‘round the clock.

Like one, 






I need to escape.

I need to survive. 


In my head, I make a break

for the door.

I could run 

in four,





But freedom never seems to come that quick. 

I wait anxiously while the clock 

goes tick-





The beat never stops. 


Sirens wail from phantom cops,

while I sit jailed inside this box,

bound forever by phantom locks. 


My pen rapidly taps the desk,

sounding like echoes of a dead horse’s hooves

running through the Wild West.


At least he was free. 


My body’s anxious, 

and I’ve got no patience left. 

I can’t sit in silence 

while the clock commits 

theft after theft after theft 

with impunity. 


These feelings—

they’re nothing new to me. 


The classroom door flies open,

and there stands a man in black. 

But, the clock marches on, dutifully. 

Like tick,





The clock now screams,





The lights go out, as if someone’s planned it. 

But the clock continues,

like tick,




The man doesn’t just own the dark,

he commands it. 

He seals the exit,

and suddenly the light 

at the end of his barrel

is the only way out.


Though, I suppose,

that was always the only way out.


I see the man’s face 

behind the muzzle-flash. 

The face is mine, 

and all-of-a-sudden, 

I’m holding the gun.

But, the class bell will 

wake me 

in four,










Take me captive,

only then can I be free.

Make me your slave,

and only then, will I see,


just what it is 

that this life can be.

Sinners lie where 

believers bleed,


and they claim faith

is all a man will ever need.


Inside this cell, I celebrate 

being freed, the smell of fate (or death)

does this new consciousness breed. 


I breathe, and with every breath,

I ponder how much air is really left.


I lay with liars, cheats, and killers— bereft

of any morality— for whom these bars

are a mere formality. They’re trapped

regardless, unwittingly taking part in this

chess match between their God and the Devil. 


I give a nod, but I don’t revel 

in the sight of a rebel turned dog

being brought to slaughter.


Our cells (or fates) are sealed

by soldered iron and we soldier 

little hope for a physical escape. 


Our souls (or chains) are the only 

witnesses that remain in this lonely 

corner of existential consciousness. 


Politics and poetry are provincial

matters in this new order of spirit. 


The border of our cage is only

an obstacle if we can’t clear it.


Do you hear it? 

The sound of a machine (or paranoia)

hums low as it surrounds 

men who never had the sense

to run from gun smoke.

For many, words are their last bit of hope.

What it must be to believe in a God 

that wants to see you broke. 

Because only a man with nothing 

can know. 


Know the smell

of death and the inevitability of hell.

It’s he who will turn to God with

his knee knelt. 


Take me captive,

only then can I be free.

Make me your slave,

and only then, will I see.


Inside this cell, I celebrate 

being freed, the smell of fate (or death)

does this new consciousness breed





The Virtuoso

The Virtuoso 




Take note 

of the virtuoso,

and the power that she holds.

Watch her bear her soul for the crowd, 

while maintaining composure and control. 


Her notes 

are clear, and her story bold.

She fears not lies that jealousy told.


On stage,

she is the master.

A prodigal genius since the age of five.


But inside,

she is a disaster,

just trying to survive. 


By the applause

she lives and dies. 

Hitting the crescendo,

her performance carries

us along for the ride. 


It’s a feeling

only she can really describe.

The audience, now kneeling—

to the new Goddess of Music—

they prescribe. 


She leaves

the stage, and takes 

off her mask. She’s turning the page,

she pours herself another glass.


She heads

home, which is in the upstairs 

of the concert hall. There she 

retreats and lays her head against the wall. 


She wondered if the crowd 

had really loved her at all.

She wants to be proud,

but she’d never say as much aloud. 

She wants to please the audience,

and she knows what it takes now. 


However, the show is only a temporary escape. 

When she turns back to the reality of this place,

she struggles to fall asleep. 

Her heart has too many burdens to keep,

and playing the Virtuoso isn’t cheap.

Her work is perpetual, she pushes on to the next one, 

her pulse beats in a Pyrrhic pursuit of perfection.


She longs for that connection 

with the crowd, the clap, the roar,

that moment when she realized 

what all the heartache was for.


A Hero Or A Martyr (Song)

Began my GDC Blog (wayyy back when) with song lyrics. I've long-since been sticking to poetry, (as I struggled with the songs, I thought) but now I'm getting back in to song writing, with hope that I've progressed some in the last year and a half or so. If you have the will to, you can venture back in time to some of my old blogs to determine that for yourself :P


A Hero Or A Martyr 






What good is a hero 

to a martyr?

What good is faith 

to a king?


What good is a mind 

long-since departed?

What good is a bird

who won’t sing?





I live my life

for the broken hearted

Look past the lights 

and you’ll see




That you want to kill me

in the act of what 

could save us all


You want to kill me,

but nothing can 

save us from ourselves (2x)





What good is a hero

without a cause?

What good is a God,

without a reason to believe?


What good is a book,

when the writing’s on the wall?

What good is a rebel

that never bleeds?




I live my life

for the broken hearted

Look past the lights 

and you’ll see




That you want to kill me

in the act of what 

could save us all


You want to kill me,

but nothing can 

save us from ourselves (2x)





One shot, sniper

Take aim, dead-eye,

and it’s goodbye, fighter (4x)




I lived my life

for the broken hearted

Look past the lights 

and you’ll see




That you killed me

in the act of what may 

have saved us all


You wanted to kill me,

but nothing can 

save us from ourselves (2x)


Seeking: Sleep

Seeking: Sleep



This youth is forever fleeting,

so I ask myself: 

How do I make the most of life 

while my heart’s still beating?

How do I obtain all it is that I’m seeking

when time keeps disappearing with each blink?

It’s all I can manage to think about

as I stare at my ceiling appealing 

to whatever God will have me today. 


This feeling, 

this pit in my stomach,

is from fears I’ve long known

but long been concealing. 

Now my mind is reeling.

Time is stealing away my life and it seems

like all I can do is lie here and take it. 

But, this feeling is a trap.

It’s a code 

            I need

                     to crack.

It’s a wall that looms ahead,

and I have no choice but to break it. 

When it comes to freeing myself

from the burden of time,

I don’t have the means to fake it.


I know I’m destined to make it some day. 

(Yet still, I’ll pray I’m not mistaken).

Time’s a resource from which we never stop taking. 




I’ll never stop creating. 

But first, I’ll have to shake the shadow that time casts.

I can’t live in the past and I can’t allow 

myself to move too fast. I have to live

and love and make this moment last.


I run all of these thoughts through my head 

while I lay here in bed and it’s no wonder I can’t pass out.

I’m caught in the middle of a fifteen round bout

between myself and my head, but if Ali taught 

me anything it’s that I’ll have time pout when I’m dead.


So instead, 

I’ll shout my words at the wall.

I’ll bleed sharpie writings on bathroom stalls.

I’ll find scrap-paper so that I can scrawl my thoughts 

and I’ll still be fighting long 


      I’ve dropped 

                        the ball, 

but I won’t quit.


I’ll roll with the punches, I’ll take my hits.

If I want to be immortalized 

I have to make something that resonates,

something that flicks a switch 

in the audience’s minds. 

Something that can help them find 

a bright star on a cloudy night 

or an escape when they’re in a bind. 


Through words, 

I’d like to live forever.

I’ll beat the clock by living through every line.

I toss my heart in to the rhythm 

and my soul in to each rhyme 

and together they’ll

make a sound that echoes 

across the halls of time. 







Once A Week


Ekphrasis poem based on Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks”

Spoilered cuz large image: 



Once A Week




The diner sits on the corner of 6th and Lake, 

same as it always has. 


Conquest, the counterman in white, 

pours his friend a coffee, 

same as he always does. 


The counterman’s friend has a nickname too, 

he goes by Famine,

and his plate sits empty, same as it always does.


While Conquest serves his friend, 

he chats with two other patrons.

The woman goes by ‘War,’ 

“Suitable name for a woman who

always wears a blood-red dress,” 

the bartender noted when they first met.


The woman in red came with a man on her arm, 

same as she always does.


This man chose the nickname ‘Death,’ 

but he’s much better company than his name would suggest. 


There, at the diner on 6th and Lake, 

sits Death, War, Famine, and Conquest,

same as they always do.


Each week, it’s the same time and the same place

They come together in the same clothes,

and put the exact same portion 

of stale bread and canned fruit on their plates.

(Except for Famine, who prefers a coffee, and is

always fifteen minutes late). 


They bring fake names and tales of fake glory.

They talk of life as it once was and debate 

news stories that are over a decade old. 


Outside, on the city’s hollowed boulevards,

their nightmares circle, waiting, same as they always do. 


The pain of watching infection drive a loved-one to die.

The horror of watching the last helicopter leave you behind.

The heavy solitude of survivor’s guilt that weighs on your mind,

and the suffocating isolation that comes with being trapped in a city with no escape, 


all of those nightmares awaits. 


Here sit the last four living people 

that can be found wandering the streets 

of a city otherwise deserted.


Once a week, they meet. 

Same as they always do. 







You can shout all you want,

elites will not hear your call.

They know just one language—

the dollar owns them all.

So while I think we agree apathy 

is the enemy of progress and progress 

means a revolution looms, I also

believe there’s a cycle we need to break,

and we’ve gotta do it soon. 

We have words on paper and words 

on our screens, but what do those words

really mean if they’re shouted at a wall?

Words won’t win a war and they won’t make empires fall. 

Radical action takes more than 

writing “Anonymous” on a bathroom stall. 

Anarchist aesthetics and angry posts on Reddit 

are a start but I believe we’re thinking too small.


How do we bring about change?

It’s an honest question. 


I appreciate the radical idea but 

what happens the day after an empire falls?


I think the writing’s on the wall,

anarchy isn’t a plan at all. 


If anarchy is really what it takes 

then what kind of place would we create?


I don’t know what your vision is. 


I’m open to a conversation on how we take on the state,

but I personally think the better way is to beat 

them at their own game. 

They know one language,

I don’t know if rebellion is the way. 



Zero. (Response Poem)

Zero. (Remix)




What’s a word mean without action?




What’s a cry for change worth when it’s yelled at rebel factions?




But, we should honor the effort.

Let’s hear a standing O for the keyboard hero. 

Want to know how many minds you changed with that post? 

(I’ll give you a hint: the answer’s always zero).


I’m not saying we disagree. 

As far I can tell, you feel the same as me.

However, you can’t possibly take yourself this seriously. 


What good’s a blog on GDC? 

A fan page for a band named after weed. 

A band who wrote their legend with an album meant for protest. 

How many conservative fans do you really think they have left?


This, this is a breeze. Maybe there’s one or two dissenters,

but for you, these arguments are won with ease. 


“Stand and fight.” 


Understatement and persuasion can cut like a knife,

but this ain’t that,

it’s one of the funnier things I’ve seen all night. 


I don’t pretend to be Shakespeare with every rhyme, 

so can we please spend less time trying to be 

Che Guevara with every line?


I like what you write on most days, 

but I think this is a waste of time.

You’re a preacher with a choir, 

and you haven’t changed a single mind. 



The same crimson door welcomes me with open arms.

The same pale-yellow paint covers the walls.

The same smell of over-cooked bacon seeps through the halls.


The same eclectic chaos of clutter covers our kitchen’s counter tops. 

The same sound of my mother telling my brother to please pick up his socks rings 

through my ears and I hear the same click when the front door is closed and locked. 


The same sky-blue house sits at the top of the same rolling green hill. 


These sights, these senses, they’re all the same to me still.


This place has all the important elements of a home. 

It’s got nostalgia and memories and a family to remind you that you’re never really on your own.


So why—when I stand in this spot that I’ve stood so many times before— 

do I feel so impossibly alone?


I’m in my house, but I fear I’ve lost my home. 

Somewhere in the process of finding myself, 

there were some things that I forgot to bring along. 


That home, as I know it, is gone.

Now, the closest comfort I can find is in the familiar melody of a song,

or in the distant memory of your voice, reminding me that I’m strong. 

My home, now, are those memories and the road I’m traveling on. 

There’s no turning back, the path I left is gone. 


The People Come From All Around


The People Come From All Around


Free Verse




The people come from all around.

“Here, here! There’s an artist on display

at the center of town. Come one, come all…”

The familiar sound of a hawker’s call rings through the city’s streets.

On-lookers from priests, doctors, to the police 

flock toward the city center. 


There they’ll find an artist in a cage,

performing like an actor on stage.

She writes with haste, trying to please the crowd. 

She pours her heart in to poems, stories, 

novels, but still the crowd wants more. 

“If I bleed a bit for you on this page,

would you set me from the cage?”

The crowd cheers and the artist goes to work.

She searches for inspiration in the darkest of places. 


To what length would she have to go?


To these people it’s all a show. 


Unrequited Love

Lost friends

Existential crises




By which weapon will she sacrifice her soul for the fervid crowd?


It matters little to them.


She goes with one about death.

It goes on about seizing the moment,

time, sorrow, and- I think you can guess the rest. 


The artist’s words were immaculate. 

No poet alive would have matched her.


But still, the crowd wanted more. 

So the poet went back to work. 

She left everything she could on the page this time.

She went to the very edge of her mind 

to find something deep enough to please the horde. 



She bled all she could. 

The girl now lays where the artist once stood. 


The crowd begins to dissipate. 

They lament about how the girl could have been great,

“If only she didn’t work herself to death,

she bled until she had nothing left.”


Afraid of the Dark

-I posted an older version of this some time ago, but it's been redone quite a bit since then.


Afraid of the Dark


Hello there,

temptress from my nightmares

I’ve got this place where we can hide

 Just bring your mind, leave the rest behind

We’ll go to the place that demons call home

A place where Gods, ghosts, and ghouls do roam

It’s like nothing you’ve ever known


Hello there,

No need for you to be scared

The demon’s dance does darkness bade

While the light of day fades away

Just remember, you’re not here alone

Down, down through the fires we go

To find the peace that the day stole


Follow me,

And we’ll enter for free

You see, our price was already paid

The dark’s control, your soul could not evade

But the trip is worth its toll

Listen not, to lies angels told

Learn the truth that darkness holds


Here we are,

Don’t be afraid of the dark

Can you hear the shadows whisper?

“Follow us, you know you miss her”

The sinister serenade is sweet

Though, it’s the secrets that lie beneath

that will sweep you off your feet


Look around,

All your fantasies surround,

You alone could have them all

You can rise, the rest will fall, But

beware, a shadow you can not trust

They’ll rob you blind with lust,

We must be aware


We’re prepared

Our minds are here, our bodies elsewhere

The shadows play their tricks,

but our sleeves hold secrets too

The dark’s a joker playing you for a fool

Yet, our bodies know what to do

This may be a place you always knew



Hello there,

temptress from my nightmares,

til darkness kisses my lips once more

and til demons dance, while fires soar

I must return to the place

 from which I escaped 

We’ll meet again, I know you’ll wait






Again, I find myself alone at night

It seems the woods grow darker every time

I plead, I howl, just for a glimpse of light

The dark hears not, cares not, it feels just fine


There is a certain sense of loneliness, 

I search the sky for signs- where is the Moon?

Without the moon, to whom will I confess?

There is no one to hear my sorrowed tune


Yet maybe this is right where I belong,

With darkness draped on my black fur,

Through trees, the wind will sing the song,

Of night, of solitude; the shadows blur 

with mind, with heart, erasing who you were

I do find comfort here, of that I’m sure


To Break Out or Break Down

To Break Out or Break Down



I’m tired, and I’ve had it.


I’m tired, and I’ve had it.


I’m wired, and I’m manic.


I’m wired, and I’m manic.


I’m also the best liar on the planet,

Would my lifetime be mired in this dissonance if I had planned it?

When it comes to contradiction,

it feels as if my mind demands it.


I’ve had it.


I’ve had it.


Why can’t I discern what matters most?

Between having a peaceful mind and being chaotically inclined,

it seems I always prefer the latter and it’s not even close.


Is that what I’m supposed to be?

Is this chaos a disaster or a ladder to brand-new possibilities?

Would this poem be different if I had her?


I don’t know.


I don’t know. 


I don’t know where I go from here.

Do the answers become clear if I can let go of all my fears?

If I let go of that uncertainty then what do I really have?

If this path isn’t really worth taking,

If this life that I’m creating isn’t one worth making,

If this reality that I always seem to be escaping 

has a definition for my life that I end up hating,




…then what do I do?


I cling to the uncertainty because it’s the last thing 

I know that I’ve certainly got. 

If I can’t stop my mind from spinning itself in to the ground,

then what makes anything about me all that profound?


I’m one step closer to a break out 

and two steps closer to a break down


It wasn’t a relationship.

It was a shakedown. 

My thoughts stolen and abused,

Shame on me, my heart knows better than to tell the truth.

I sound like any other confused kid with a pen in his hand.


By night, I’m an idealist, ready to make a stand.

But the night’s optimism is halted by the morning,

when I’ve forgotten all that I’ve planned.

Now that my heart’s been banned from the decision-making process,

I figured I’d be able to sit own and make my mind my new project,

but I still find myself trying to protect my heart 

from those traps that tore it apart.


Perhaps I need time. 

Perhaps I need to find a new mind. 

Perhaps I need to design my own little world,

One where my heart can walk along just fine 

without being jumped by a ruthless thief.

Perhaps I keep blaming my heart 

when it was my head who was the culprit. 

Instead of shaming my heart maybe I should start thinking of ways to keep 

my mind and my emotions somewhere far apart.


Is it really this hard?


It can’t possibly be this hard.



This guy over here looks like he knows what he’s about,

And that girl over there has a smile so wide it hurts my mouth.


Do they have this all figured out?


Am I the only one fighting this hard to control what I become?

Should I just let it go and let it ride?

Or I could run?

Run so far that I can forget that I’m alive,

and can forget where I’m from. 

Then I’d never have to face what I become. 


I’m tired. I’ve had it. 


It can’t possibly be this hard. 





Author note: Trying on a slightly different style


Grandest Theft

Grandest Theft



How do I hold on to this youth 

that’s forever fleeting?

Time’s this wound 

that won’t stop bleeding


It feels that even

this heart beating is leading me

to one absolute end,

I’d lend my soul to the devil

to feel some sense of control 

But over and over

time pushes me out of the door

before I have a chance to take a breath


Now I worry I’ll be running 

’til I’ve got nothing left

While time steals away youth

in the grandest of thefts.

So deft is time 

at distracting us ’til death


Tick-tock, tick-tock.

But how many more ticks do I got?

Whether I have a few or a lot,

the uncertainty ties my mind up in a knot


Do I even have a shot?
Will I ever come to terms 

with the time ticking off the clock?

Or will I be cursed to toil in 

anxiety until the reaper knocks?


I don’t know the answer

I can’t know the answer 

Maybe time is just this cancer

that never goes in to remission-

a cancerous thief that won’t 

ever ask for permission

It just takes and takes and takes

while we are all constantly trying to create

a place in our lives where we don’t waste time 

but we also take time to appreciate 

the finer things in life



Time may be a thief,

but it’s also life’s most prolific charity case

Giving out memory after memory that no 

amount of money can replace 

Giving out story after story 

that even death can’t erase


If your heart is broken,

time can pick up the pieces


If your soul’s been torn open

time tells you, “You will beat this”


And time means it. 


Tick-tock, tick-tock.

I still don’t know what I’ve got,

This cognitive dissonance only 

tightens that knot. 

It seems I’ve found a spot between 

humble appreciation and 

outright hatred mixed with impatience.


Tick-tock, tick- tock.

I’m done looking at this fucking clock. 


Wish You Well



I could have been your remedy

But, I’m yours now only in memory

My head was wrapped around your melody

But I’ve forgotten how the words go


My heart’s in service to you no more

Faded, like your knocks against my door

You don’t own me, like you did before

I don’t need you, like I did before


It hasn’t been long 

since you left me in this place

Yet, I’ve forgotten your song

And I’ve forgotten your face


This is a place I’ve been

a thousand times before

but that was then;

I don’t recognize it anymore.


As your melody fades,

I still wonder about the cards I played

If different moves were made,

would you have stayed?


Maybe it’s more about the cards I was dealt

Maybe I thought you were something else,

Maybe I was wrong-

Maybe you weren’t someone that I could help


Now you’re gone

but that doesn’t change how I felt

You once had me under your spell,

and I thought I could break that fucking shell,

but, now all I can do

Is see you out the door and wish you well