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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Punch Drunk


spiderdarkShe crafts paper spiders
To catch the things
Creeping inside her.
Swallows them whole
When she thinks
No one is looking.

No one

Is ever looking.

Maybe that’s why
She cries herself to sleep
Night after night.

And maybe that’s why
She’s punch drunk
Every mirror in her home.

She can’t look either.

Her skin
Is a paper thin
Road map of scars
Hidden beneath fabric.

The only ones to see those scars
Are the passing men
Who never care to look
Beyond her bare breasts.
Tiring themselves
While she’s left empty
And restless.

Inside her
She finds a hole
She can’t dig deep enough to escape.
Pin pricks her fingers
Praying to God
That she’ll wake up
And this all
Will have been a bad dream.

This ain’t dreaming.
We aren’t dreaming.

We are so many
Pieces of shattered glass.
By people who could no longer
See themselves in us…
Or through us.

Forest fires
Washed into so much smoke.
Leaving us
Unable to see;
Unable to breathe.

We are lengths of rope
Others have used to swing,
Leaving us only enough
By which to hang.
And we
Can’t hang on much longer.

You are not alone.

Intertwine your thread with mine.
Fragile as I am,
I will hold you.
Fill your breath.
These barely beating hearts
Will match in time.

And when we fall,
Let it be into each others’ arms.
For I promise
To see you
For you.
Not use you to find me.

You are not a beacon home,
Just a beacon,
And I pray your light
Never stops shining.


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She Lets Go


giveupShe’s not dead yet,
But her fire
Is only a smolder now.

She’s been here before.
Empty promises,
And bruised lips.

Promised herself
To never walk this road.

With bloodied blistered feet,
She walks on.
She walks alone.

Her cries for help
Are sung into
Dead phones.

And no one’s answering.

She looks back
Into deeply obscured memories.
Wonders what happened

To that little girl

Made up

Of so much fire.

Only the burn remains,
And how much longer
Can she withstand the ash.

Her beauty is buried
Beneath so much guilt,
Behind a stack of so many bad choices.

She can’t see
That at least
She still wanders.

Beneath night sky and starlight
Firefly glimmer
And a desperate flight

The breeze
The breeze
The breeze
Desperately reaches out.

Longs to keep her flame alive.
But she,
Feels only the cold,
And so

She lets go.

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Return to Sender


aloneuniverseHe wore paper cuts and drank moonlight.
Knew the difference between winter and a cold front;
It was in her scent.
A sweet aroma no amount of cold shoulder could cover.

His home…
His home was in the space between stars.
Beyond reach and out of touch.

He knew touch
In the form of sickle shaped words
And outward moving hands.

One time he wrote a letter to god.
It came back unopened and marked “RETURN TO SENDER,”
So he tried to find the devil’s front door.
But after digging through layer after layer after layer of bullshit,
He quit trying.

Figured father figures weren’t worth the daddy issues.
Tried to slip away unnoticed,
But graveyards can’t escape their ghosts.

His bones are buried behind massive walls of distance
Wrapped in longing to draw near,
But he’s not much of an artist,
So he settles for the distance.

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