I’m sorry my friend.

I wanted to help you

but hurt you instead.

The least I can say is

I’m sorry my friend.

The most I can do is

tell you I’m here,

no matter the distance

though waters aren’t clear,

it’s times like these—

a balloon in the air—

to let yourself go completely

and live not in fear.

You’re worth more than you know

I know this my friend

so follow your heart, and

try to understand.

I wanted to help you

but hurt you instead.

The least I can say is

I’m sorry my friend.

Tell me a story

There’s a part of me

that see’s this all clearly

like a child standing in a crowd

there’s really only one way out.

What is it that you see

it’s fine to disagree

why if the world’s mine oyster please

forgive me for the lack of belief.

I had this faith in you

I thought you had it too

how many smiles does it take to show

the unhappiness we grew to know.

Do you take this hand

would you understand

lighting matches just to prove you could

did it ever do you any good?

Tell me a story, one without love, cause it’s taken me for granted so many times—enough.

There’s a part of you

engrained in me now

I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit

it’s a piece I won’t ever regret.

So what’s the point of these prose

and insecurity poems

like a fish needs water to breathe

I guess it really isn’t up to me.

If this is just a passing feeling

I’ll agree to disagree then

watch the sun rise and fall once more

a couple hours then I’ll start the chore.

You see I know my problems

it’s not up to you to solve them

if I go out the Hemingway

like Kerouac first I’ll have my say so

Tell me a story, one without love, cause I’ve taken you for granted so many times—c’mon.

Tell me a story, one without love, cause it’s taken me for granted so many times—enough.

The game is rigged the money’s spent

If I stay in bed too long

dreaming of the times gone by

There must be something wrong

like not knowing what is right

If I get up and get gone

still daydreaming in the morning light

There must be something wrong

because all I see is black and white

Out there on the road

passing frowns can’t weigh me down

Like songs from days of old

freewheeling there’s no time to tell

She’s been reaching for the sun

did all I could to take her there

Must be doing something wrong

like two children we’re still unprepared

To walk

on our own

As state signs blur

on the road

Yet all this time

we have grown

There’s still this

phantom partner feeling

though we’re on our own.

When you go there’s still coming back

don’t be extreme like who needs that?

There must be something wrong

for me to feel like this and that

She was going either way

it didn’t matter if I saved the day

There must be something wrong

for me to think or feel this pain

Standing in the setting sun

which blinds me now casts shadows on

Reflections on the windowpane

my doppelgänger’s staring back at me

If looks could kill I’d live

my malice spite all gibberish

God knows if I could commit

I’d probably muck it up like a little kid

Whose ball

hits the rim

It bounces far

time and again

The game is rigged

the money’s spent

Yet there’s this

faint glimmer of hope

like there’s a chance to win.

As Mona Lisa smiles at her Rembrandt

She’s Mona Lisa

looking across the lobby

With her eyes

transfixed on his cold dead body

While the kids line up

single filed and obviously

Unaware that there’s any problem

It’s a warm fall day

colored leaves spin around

And there’s this tired old man

selling shaved ice proudly

Nice to meet you sir

can I help you out

As Mona Lisa

smiles at her Rembrandt now

He was an eye sore for her eyes

it hurt so much still she had to look twice.

And there was something in her smile

lips spread thin like she was in denial.

I didn’t mean to

bother you it’s a habit

I just noticed you

looking lost or sad

With this expression

drawn like a bloody bath

Please now excuse me

I’ve gotta be getting back

Hey wait a minute

won’t you just take a second

To admit that something

is wrong in your head

And if you’d like to

call me sometime and

Chat when you’re feeling

better I’d quite like that

She wrote her name down on his ticket

her area code and seven lovely digits.

Then he wrote in the palm of her hand

a little note that read I think I’d understand.

So Mona Lisa

held her hands calm and steady

Framed herself back

against the wall already

She now felt out of place

like in a fictional setting

While some students

drew her in lines quite badly

What’s the point of hanging around

when rarely any good comes to you in this town.

Thats when she placed her name tag on the floor

and made out for Leonardo exiting the door.

poetry is spam

A large portion of

poetry is spam.

But I don’t eat that stuff,

at least not until I get to see Hawaii

then who knows?

I hear, fried with an egg, it’s good.

When in Rome, you know;

when in Rome.

semi colons &

It was raining cats and dogs

when she spoke in

semi colons &

claustrophobia.

I’m glad you’re here,

she said.

I told her that

I was glad that she was too.

So we continued our

run on sentences &

admiration a while longer

before settling on goodbye.

It had stopped raining

and the sun was coming out.

As for the cats and dogs

they lay sleeping sound.

Her Genius

We are all our own genius

aren’t we? Self-help tells us

to be selfless while the world

tells us to be tough

slowly, gradually

like a surgeon’s steel

picking apart pieces

of our sanity like a game

of Operation. We are all

children at heart, aren’t we?

When our nose’s glow red

and hairs stand on end

while our souls ignite like kerosene

flailing our arms in ecstasy

remembering the truth which

from birth was wiped clean

like a board of chalk.

We’re always trying to get that

message back, that message which

in a world or man and steel and greed

can only exist as long as love at first sight

where in the morning she lay

soundlessly asleep bound to no one

her genius in my memory forever.

don’t think twice it’s alright

She said she had nothing to say

and the hard part was

that I kind of believed her.

She had it sometimes, this spark

but never really fleshed it out.

And even when she did

she always just kind of played the part

but never really got it how I saw it in her.

I think I just wanted her to be this muse

which she understood she couldn’t be.

Not because she didn’t want to but rather

because she’d already given so much of herself

that there really wasn’t more to give.

And what’s the point of giving your all

to something that never really gave you anything

but headaches and a broken heart?

Oh how we live for those who treat us like dirt

because in the end we respect them better than

the rest who smile and nod and tell us how

good of a job we’re doing just to get through the day.

But they don’t really care. To them

we might as well not even exist. I mean really

who do you call when you’re at rock bottom?

You call the ones you’ve loved, lost, and

will love regardless of the pain they’ve caused

because even when she said she had nothing

to say, I knew better than that.

I just pray she wasn’t telling the truth.

Hell even when I have nothing to say

I have something to say. But that’s me.

That wasn’t and will never be her.

“So don’t think twice it’s alright.”

Bob Dylan said that.

“I’ll let you be in my dream if I can be in yours.”

Bob Dylan also said that.

“Write with fire,” I said that.

I’m probably taking this harder than I should

but that’s who I am and what I do.

I know this. I admit it. I am this.

There is no turning it off, no turning back.

I’ll wake up tomorrow pen in hand regardless.

Don’t it feel good? That spark. Like fire, right?

You just can’t put it down no matter how hard you try.

See, you don’t choose it, it chooses you.

And if you don’t say it, someone will.

It’s all just wishful thinking in the end

so here’s another penny to the well

funny how it doesn’t even make a splash anymore.

This guy at the bar ain’t half bad!

This guy at the bar the other night

tells me my poetry aren’t poems

but rather songs

as he takes my phone

and begins singing them to himself.

These are great man, he says

really good stuff here,

as he sings, flipping back his hair.

And I don’t stop him, because why

would I stop someone

who’s turned my pain into pleasure

when I’ve tried so hard to do just that.

Hell! This guy’s voice ain’t half bad!

I’ll be a mourning dove

Every thought is vital, so while I find myself
on the verge of another vital breakdown,
at least this time I’m in control,
creatively speaking,
so that’s got to count for something.
If not, I’ll be pushing daisies by morning,
or at least I’ll be a mourning dove, lying in their virtue.