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Weapons

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The truth, the truth

oh, the truth.

When people are so sure

they’ve found out the truth—

well, that’s where the truth

goes to die.

See, they’ll never trust

another point of reason.

Instead, they’ll find

an insidious feeling.

For what’s the truth

to a life lived believing

in falsehoods.

Is it a beacon of hope?

Or a fire to ignite?

The truth gets twisted, sharp.

It’s barbed like wire.

Used as a weapon.

Held so tightly, it scars.

But the truth has never changed,

not really.

It’s only what you’re convinced to believe in.

And for most people, truth

is so unforgiving,

whatever you say

they’ll hear without listening.

Blueberry Pie

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I’ll forever be curious why I went to a wedding

where they only served pie,

cut a cake with a sword,

and six months later divorced.

Though when I asked why, I was met with resistance, like posing the question

just wasn’t my business.

But I traveled a long way for that dry wedding.

From New York to Oregon.

For a slice of blueberry pie,

hand picked by the bride—

whose groom, I guess

couldn’t stand blueberries.

If You Let Me Love You Baby

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I’ve been awake all night, thinking of life

before you were here.

When suddenly I, turned on the light

everything was clear.

If you let me love you baby

I will love you till the end of time.

Nothing in this world could stop me baby

Gonna love you till the day I die.

Like a thief in the night, you’ve been on my mind

stealing all of my dreams.

I can’t lie, I wish that I

could just get some sleep.

If you let me love you baby

I will love you till the end of time.

Nothing in this world could stop me baby

Gonna love you till the day I die.

If you, just take my hand.

Will you, help me understand.

How you’ve, taken the stars

and put them in your eyes.

If you let me love you baby

I will love you till the end of time.

Nothing in this would could stop me baby

Gonna love you till the day I die.

whispers and screams

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Everywhere, the door’s

slowly come unhinged.

From the floorboards to the ceiling

to the cracks in the trim.

This house which once wasn’t

where grasses were green,

looks less like a home

and more like a dream.

Was this what you envisioned,

when picking the plot?

The land that is dead,

or the bones that now rot.

Everywhere, the trees

weep upon doorsteps.

From the old to the new

are welcome mats unkept.

This dream which once was

where all things begin,

looks more like a nightmare

that never will end.

Was it worth it to build

what you’d one day destroy?

Where the ashes of men

are tilled with the soil.

For now, everywhere

are whispers and screams.

For now, everywhere

no one is home.

Baby Blues

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I sit here, rocking

waiting for you to wake.

In your blanket with the bumps

snuggled close to me.

My butt? It’s numb, from sitting for an hour.

Trying not to move or disturb you from your slumber.

What’s that, my boy, are you laughing at me?

Because Miles, like always

you’re smiling in your sleep.

Or perhaps it’s the birds, singing at our window.

With the curtains pulled shut, this cave of ours is peaceful.

While the air condition hums,

the ceiling fan spins,

I hold your little hand with the baby blues again.

Don’t worry little one, it’s not that I am sad

it’s just you’ve given me such joy,

it hurts to feel glad.

So when you’re good and ready

to laugh and sing and play

just open up those brilliant eyes

and take these blues away.

A precious life

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Our baby in his crib.

My wife in bed.

And our cat on my lap.

I start my day in this rocking chair,

black cup of coffee, waiting for the sun to rise.

Though the curtain’s closed

just enough light leaks through, to

silhouette our little boy—

who stirs and coos and grumbles.

And reminds me just how precious life can be.

This neighbor of mine

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I thought I’d heard it all

until I heard a man

screaming at the top of his lungs

on a Sunday morning

at the mother of his child, because

for some people being an adult

just doesn’t quite fit in with their lifestyle—

This neighbor of mine

let’s call him Ray, he walks to the beat of his own drummer.

And frankly, that drummer sucks.

Whether he’s high all day, shouting who wants Champagne! (on a Thursday afternoon) or chasing women from his apartment claiming they’re trespassing while hollering,

YOU SELL SEX FOR FREE!

Hell, Ray does it all.

Record producer! Club promoter!

Youtube celebrity!

He’s a real stand up guy—

And all the while he’s shouting about custody.

Custody?

You mean the baby’s only in there half the time?

Well, I’ll be damned…

it’s 4am—and here we go again.

The best part is when he calls himself a grown ass man—screaming about a 34$ bottle of booze.

I mean, really?

You can’t make this shit up.

Darkest Is The Hour

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Starry is the night.

This pain I’d spare for change.

Accept it or reject it,

it’s either way the same.

Misty comes the morning.

An afternoon of rain.

It’s quiet in the evening,

but isn’t that the way?

To offer one protection.

A coat from bustling wind.

If only could my doorstep,

provide the warmth within.

Though darkest is the hour.

The brightest star may fall.

I dare not wish upon it,

but marvel still in awe.

How elegant it sounds.

Sweet agony by dawn.

When days aren’t worth repeating,

who am I in your sky?

The Way Which We Evolve.

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If you look around you’ll notice

certain things are dirty

and certain things are clean.

If everything was dirty,

chances are you’d notice nothing.

If everything was clean, well

you’d notice everything that wasn’t.

I’ll never fully understand the anatomy of women.

Or what it means to be a man.

I’ll never fully comprehend

the way which we evolve.

If stones don’t throw themselves, what’s all this broken glass?

If architects were certain, would houses not be built to last?

So if by chance you notice

everything that wasn’t.

Chances are you’ll notice, that light reveals nothing.

Just empty rooms with empty shelves.

Just echoes full of dust.

Just empty rooms with unlocked doors

we dare not walk through twice.

Hands Of Fate

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I pull back the curtain to let in a little light

noticing that here, now, there is no longer

a table to be turned.

There is no longer a reason to be angry,

or moral, or burnt out by the frailty

of others actions or in-action.

What’s worse is I no longer find it funny,

but just a little sad, that, all the while

I’d been searching for something,

something in everyone (something I’d lost?)

that could never be theirs to give.

It’s become almost impossible to ignore

this benign neutrality that begs the question,

for whose benefit has this effort, my effort,

really ever been for?

And it’s then I start to slip away

like specs of dust my memory’s carried

through light and sound and everything else

that no one but myself can reason.

So I open the curtain just half an inch more

to allow a little light in, where here, now

there is no more to explain—

no weight in which to carry.

When I shook the hands of fate, they offered me a parlay.

(I can’t ever get that back) But—

this much I can do.