White Spaces

I’m forgetting what the white spaces looked like.
Filled them in with filigree markings,
While eyes like God watched overhead
Ensuring every spot was penciled in.

It’s a waste of space plastered
In secret messages and mixed tapes
Where recorded are your words
Over and over again,
“Lift us to heaven.”

I carry your cross on my shoulders,
Each year growing older.
Getting over the mechanical whine
Of cogs forced to keep up the
Political two-step of your time.

How is this mine?
Two left feet unable to keep rhythm
With dogs and ponies
Drowned in perfumes and ribbons.

Unkind queens
Reaching for the crowns of their kings
Praying for the earth beneath their feet
To end its quaking.

I felt a woman’s beating heart halt.
You were nowhere to be found,
And somehow
You made this my fault.

I’m forgetting what the white spaces looked like.
Filled them in with filigree markings,
While eyes like God watched overhead
Ensuring every spot was penciled in.

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Tinnitus Silence


From a hellish cold
Bout of lonely depression.
Never deep enough
Only deep enough
To watch the red river flow.

And ready to give up everything
Because everything
Is a static stagnant moment of nothing.
The world can’t see
Violence behind closed doors
And vibrant grins.

Behind his eyes there is a prison
Where he spies
A guarded father
Just as ready to smash his dreams
As he is ready to smash his face.

Yard time
Is in the sanctuary of a church
Where wolves dress as sheep
Turning sheep into wolves
And making feasts of those
Unwilling to convert.

He can’t fit the mold
So he stands alone
Fending off snapping jaws
Hiding behind legalistic laws
Of a faith they don’t believe
But need in order to survive.

Play that Christian music
White boy.
Raise the crowd to its feet,
Any ass in the seat,
Is a heathen to be converted
Or eaten.

I am him.
I was him.
And I made it out alive
Partially intact.
But my mind is still a labyrinth
Where ghosts and I
Still play hide and seek.
Like Pacman,
But the stakes are much higher.

Is the sound of a tinnitus silence
Where their voices
Are only a muffled crashing
Of never ending violence.

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Animals They’d Become



I was formed
In a cradle of their expectations.
Shamed to the foot
Of their cross.
Made to drink to the brine
Every ounce of pain
Filling up their cup.

But experience…
Shattered every iron shackle;
Cut loose every damnable bind.
Guided me to sight
Where once I had been blind.

I wonder
What made them the animals
They’d become.
Or why had they’d taken
To breaking our wings
Before we learned to fly.
Or why,
At our most malleable,
They pressed us into molds
Made in their image.

When asked,
Where was God,
They pointed up,
And not at us.
And I realized their god,
Was unattainable,
Too far from us;
Too far for us.

I went my way.
Ashamed I could not,
Would not,
Be the thing they wanted me to be.
And I am sorry
They’re disappointed.
Just not sorry
I disappointed them.

I’m not home yet,
But I’m making my way.
I am
Learning to live with,
And love,
Who I’ve become;
Rather than mourn
Who I was taught,
I was supposed to be.


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I’ve started a project to put my poetry into audio clips to share on YouTube. Comments, thoughts, and critiques are welcomed. Thank you!

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Passage Home


IMG_9260Pardon this break down.
I haven’t gotten it quite right.
I’m still adjusting the nuts and bolts.
It’s been a hell of a project;
A painful process.

I don’t know why
I feel this way.
Or why I wake up in the dark
With outstretched hands
Trying to hold everything back.

For too many years
I have scooped up
Fistfuls of broken glass;
Held too tight to the edged shards
Of a shattered past.

And all I have to show for it
Are long open wounds,
Far too much blood,
Little healing,
And not enough love.

Forgive me.
I really am trying.
I know it’s not enough.
But I am trying
To give you safe passage
From heart to mind to home.

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Speech Therapy


spiderI’ve been beating at the walls inside my brain
Looking for a way out.
I thought it’d be safer in here;
Like running upstairs
In a haunted house.

Every day is a slow burn
Trading in function for numbness.
Feeding a little more of myself
To the ghosts
Wandering these halls.

The poems I wrote,
About her,
Were never about her.
That was just me
Talking to myself.

And for all the talking I’ve done,
I’m not sure I ever had anything to say…
Except for the part about being tired and hurting.
I meant that.

I know I’ve birthed light into their dark.
I had hoped to keep them safe
From the darkness choking out my heart.

Most days when asked if I’m alright,
I lie.
Tell them
Everything is fine;
I’m-I’m just tired.

I never speak up.
I don’t speak about the old ghosts,
Burned down homes,
The faces in the mirror staring back at me,
How scared I am.

And y’all

I am scared.

So yeah,
I’m not okay.
I’m scared.
I just
I just wish I knew why.

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In The Wake of Parting Souls


undeservedIt begins
With an emptiness.
An impression left
In the wake of parting souls.

Picked apart
Gradually deepening
Until reaching
The edge of nothingness.

And into the abyss,
Screaming her name,
An answer
Comes in the form of a whisper.

It’s not her,
But it’s close enough,
And that
Is more than enough.

Spirit boards and skeleton keys
Open doors meant to be closed.
But still they’re opening.

And from the void
Comes a choir of voices
Filling you
With the tormented
Jealousy of angels
Who have never known love.

Who have exchanged
Crowns of thorns
For thrones of shit.

And she
Is not among them.

And the emptiness grows,
So deep.
Burying angelic screaming.
Snuffing out the entirety
Of Hell.

And you
Will storm Heaven’s Gates
For just one more glance;
One more chance
To hold her.
And know emptiness,
No more,
And no longer.

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