It’s much easier to lie
in the afternoon light,
steady’s the humming
bird that takes flight.
Oh whispering wind
forgive me tonight,
how flirting with death
has been a delight.
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The Other Type Of Feeling
You know that feeling?
The excitement you get when you see someone
And that someone’s a stranger
A stranger creeping up on the ground itself
Cautious and casual as not to disturb the air
And they think they’re not being watched
Yet secretly hoping that they are, because
What they’re creeping towards, they believe
Is gold, mercury, or an ancient artifact
An artifact no one but them has discovered
Or ever will—first—in their own time,
And in that moment you get excited too
Except you get excited for a different reason
And when their discovery turns to a shameful frown of defeat
Your lips turn upward towards the sky
Chuckling to yourself, kind of happy, kind of sad
Yet you understand enough to feel commradery
Wishing that stranger was your friend
Just so you could kick em in the pants
Saying no and Saying yes
What I’ve learned over time
Through my own self sacrifice
Is simple, and it’s this:
Admitting when to say no
is just as important as
knowing when to say yes.
still as the evening air
For some reason, people
just keep on sticking around—
no matter how I push them away.
And God knows I’ve tried, yet
still as the evening air
they remain, willing and shifty
to see me from my darkness
onward, till dawn.
Hot and Wild
I don’t need a fan
or a fawn, I need a fire—
Hot and Wild—black as coal,
as clean as a diamond
dazzling
in the mud of my soul.
Alone, together
Where are we
but forever
Alone, together
in the cosmos
of our love.
a silent mass
I never wrote a word, not until
I’d said my peace,
misconstrued and gnawed on,
beaten to a pulp,
dead as embers—burnt black on arrival
to a silent mass, ready
and aching to be heard.
The hardest lesson
Probably the hardest lesson
to learn is that, in life
you can do everything right,
and still get it wrong.
You just have to live.
Being sober’s
as overrated
as being drunk—
nobody wins.
You just have to live.
Poetry
What is poetry, but
a language of the dead.
It’s an informal dance,
a shared cigarette.
Poetry is
but a one night stand.
It’s a wine ring left,
sheets, stained
between strangers.
Words Of An Average White Male 