Sep 21

i am

when I told you,
my heart stopped.
my hands shook
as my phone screen
illuminated my face. 
i felt like a coward,
for not looking you in
the eye,
for not telling you in person
but i couldn’t stand 
the thought of disappointing 
you; of taking away your 
daughter— turning her
into a taboo. but that 
taboo as i now know 
is who i am. and i have 
found a kingdom of
people just like me. 
a kingdom of taboos. 
where pride is the king,
and love is the queen. 
Sep 20

not even a syzygy

it is her i reside 
the other side,
the in between,
the veiled,

any name doesn’t strike me as 
relevant because words do 
not exsist here. 
they are invisible ink on a 
canvas made of air. 
the last time i heard a voice was
one saying goodbye. 
there is no noise here, 
only the kind on the TV; 
black and white dots that float and 
caress your toes until they tingle. 
only the mindless noise. 
there is no one here. 
it’s just me and my imagination
and the occasional memory,
forced to relive 
and relive 
and relive 
every moment i breathed, 
every action i completed and
every step i took.
even the one 
off the ledge. 
if i could take that step back,
i would. no thinking. no guilt. 
not even a syzygy could stop me then. 
Sep 17


their eyes are like almonds
their breath like release,
and their dreams a little messy
like an unmade bed
but beautiful like a sunrise. 
their fingers moving fast across the globe,
caressing every word in the dictionary.
giving new meaning. 
beautiful in their solace. 
Sep 16

I Am Not

the lake makes a soft noise,
like one of a non-committal alarm,
not quite loud enough to stir me from 
or from my nightmares. 
the water somehow strikes me as lonely. 
like every time a wave touches the feet of a child
on it’s beach—
it is trying to make a friend. 
and what they doesn’t understand is 

i am not a hero,

i don’t rescue cats from trees,

or chase after the bad guys. 

i am not a hero. 

i am not optimistic

or hopeful,

i don’t pray for tomorrow to be better

or for the world to change. 

i am not optimistic. 

I am not a poet. 

i don’t write looping words 

on a page

or rhyme every line,

i don’t scrawl out letters 

to save the minds of those 

who stumble across my 


i am not a poet.
Sep 14

january 28th 2004

her hands are like tree branches. 
“piano hands” — 
she calls them. 
i find myself wishing, 
i too had them.
her hair flows down her neck,
then swoops like a wave, resting in 
the dips of her shoulder blades. 
her eyes aren’t dark,
but don’t shine either. 
not like a fairytale maiden. 
they hold something unknown,
something uncharted. 
like she knows when
the world will end. 
Her lips are rosey red and 
perched in a little smile,
tugged to the left. 
her laugh is summer and 
I am june. 
But this is not a love poem.
Not one meant to serenade her,
because i await—
just as anxiously as she does,
for when someone will find her 
piano hands,
swooped hair,
learned eyes,
strawberry lips 
and sunny laugh—
and they decide to keep us forever. 
(we are a package deal, of course.)

Sep 01


Aug 31

latte lips.

Her lips were like
a latte
sweet foam and 
like a new
book, pages crisp
and new,
sticky fingers 
lightly caressing 
Her cheeks, tinting
Them rose
and as her
eyelashes fan 
out against her 
face, I can see
my future,
wrapped in those 
latte lips.
Aug 31


How does one
find a garden untouched,
no flowers plucked,
by lonely children?
no plant left
unwatered by the sky?
No human skin slowly
melting the wings of
a new born butterfly.
A place that is so ethereal 
that in my mind
i cannot even picture it,
when I am able to 
picture my own 

Aug 29

when i finally mean something

i feel like i belong inside my notebook,
i feel like its the only place that holds me 
instead of hostage.
i feel the black inked letters gently caress me 
and lull me to sleep.
and there is a moment,
right before my
mind goes blank,
that i feel like i have a place where
i belong,
where i can lead my own rebellion against
my mind.
Aug 27

A Single Night