Jun 19

Lost in Time

My mind is blank...
unsure of what to think.

There is so much to think about,
but so little
I want to consider.

My mind ponders...
aching with a tired pulse,
almost as if it were

The calm room around me,
dark and shadowy,
too quiet
for my liking.

The sheets are cool,
almost damp.
I feel cold.
So empty,
staring at the shadows.

The silence
is chaos in my ears.
A warm buzz
like ten thousand screams,
begging and crying from
a whole world away.

I can do nothing,
but lay and stare.
Watching the grainy shadow
disintegrate into the light
in the door’s key lock.

The clock burns out
with a searing white light.
The hands freeze on four AM.

I sigh,
not tired,
but exhausted.
Exhausted to an extent
Jun 18

A Hiding Place For The Mind

Afraid of the light...
Afraid of the dark...
where else can I go
but the grey?

Where time trips over emotions
and the soul dissipates
into air.

Where fire is nonexistent
and the only warmth
you can find,
is rain...

I can hide in my
newspaper cave.
And chew slowly on
my solidifying hopes.

Watching my dreams fly
and taunt me from the
harsh light, and mysterious dark

I refuse to try.
I sit and regret.
‘Why did I give up?’


Jun 02

The Closet

Sometimes the darkness is my friend...
Sometimes the darkness chases me...
Like an endless game of tag,
switching back and forth.

Sometimes I play hide and seek,
but the darkness always finds me.
Often times I wonder,
‘When will I be found by light?’

The darkness is the closet,
and the closet is where I hide.

Away from my unattainable hopes
and desires.

My greedy, selfish desires...
to step outside the closet without being
ashamed or frightened
of how others will see me.

I understand that the only way
to escape my closet,
is by finding the light
instead of waiting for it
to find me.
May 28

The Backwards Clock

If time were the sea,
each tick, a desperate leap onto shore.
Each tock, a gentle pull back in tow.

No matter what way
I learn to swim,
the tide will always sweep me under.

Sometimes I wash on the sand,
miserable with sand grating
in every crevice of my soul.
No longer drowning,
but drowned.
I begin to feel the cold and wet.

Some say that time
is like fire,
but a fire can go out
with enough water.

There is no amount of man’s fire
to burn out the sea.

There is no point that we can see,
where time will stop
or be stopped.

Desperate as itself,
time is not ruthless like a fire.
Time is only mysterious, strong,
yet so familiar to all that live in it.

Some wish to go back in time,
but what a mistake that would be.

To redo every wave and drop,
to hound the beach a million
times more.
May 20

The Forgetfulness of Life

They lie awake,
oblivious to the warmth of their blankets,
and the chill through the window. 

They think about thinking,
thinking about how much they would like 
to stop thinking.

'Just once'
'Just once'

They close their dry eyes,
feeling the familiar sting and burn 
as tears wash over.

Some say that if one stops thinking,
they become lost... 
Not even noticing 
as they trip over themselves.

But they wish,
and wish so hard that they could stop thinking,
for thinking is the one reason
that they wish they could stop.

As life goes by,
memories build up,
some festering and old,
some gentle and refreshing.

Love and family become like sticky webs,
trapping them until they submit
and then ripping them away...

Then they think again,
about the pain they've endured and the good times
May 18

The Ones That Taste Like Mother

Like a thunder-shook flood,
I hated you,
for giving me such tasteless skin.
For gifting me with
eyes and ears that see myself suffer
day by day because of their color.

I hated you for my mouth,
which you cursed upon me,
and then told me you loved me.

If you loved me,
you shouldn’t have let me be
born at all...

I hated you like autumn winds,
whipping your hair around
your miserable head!
Entangling each strand with
scattered bits of leaf-litter.

“If only I could have
been whiter!”

“If only I could have been

But now I look back,
and wade in the tears I’ve cried,
each drop tastes different,
but my least favorite
are the ones that taste
like maple leaves,
like you,
like mother.

I can’t stand to smell them,
with my sharp nose.

I can’t bear to listen
May 14

As Weak as a Butterfly

I know that I am different,
I am sorry that I am different.

I know you hate my smell,
of spices my family loves.

I know we’ll never be friends,
and never should be.
Our friendship would be as fragile
as a butterfly.

You might get teased alongside me,
for my dark skin
and curly hair,
and our little butterfly would fly up
in the air.
Like a moment you pass,
and watch as time pushes you farther away.

Too far to change anything,
but just far enough
to regret.
May 13

Sweet Fairy of Time

Running—sweet scent of pine and dew,
feet bare on sticks and leaves.

Wild hair,
cool, free wind.
Empty, yet so terribly full.

Like golden sheets,
the sun crisps on the first green,
turned jade through
a sunlight filter.

Like silver silk,
so thin,
so fragile,
starlight weeps,
dripping from ragged branches,
slowly sinking up from day.

Though light is ill,
and dark is cold,
she feels no fear.

Her eyes reflect the faded blue,
her hands slip,
from vine to vine.
Slipping swiftly against
every sliver of time.

Not one moment does she miss,
not one will she ever.

She is the only one,
that never forgets,
even if she wishes
not to remember.
May 13

The Modern Day Circus

Each day he feels
those crystal stares,
as if they were stopped in time.

He’s always hoped that maybe
those crystal stares
would shatter.

All his life, like the outer box,
nowhere to hide,
exposed to the darkness,
that others call light.
Seen by judgement,
pitied by envy.

On the outside,
despite his desire to cower

He is ashamed of how
many crystals have grown.
He is ashamed of letting them grow.
How weak he is to ignore.

If only he had
chiseled cheeks,
or dainty chin.

Had he been tall,
and calm.

If only he could be reborn,
normal like the audience
of common day,
then maybe
he wouldn’t have to feel so guilty.

May 01

The World is Lost

As we overheat, 
like old computers,
lost in the realization that we
are lost. 

Tasting our mistakes by tip of iron tongue.
Feeling the pinch of an oil-sapped bullet
filled with thick ink.
Which like water,
sinks in sharp swirls in blood and fluid,
lost in itself,
as we are lost in us. 

The world heats up,
like us,
as old computers do.
Like a million suns devouring each other,
exploding onto asteroid clumps.
Balls of fire exploding in our brains,
as we realize.
We are lost. 

And the world loses itself in it's reality,
that it is lost in itself as we are lost,
and losing each light.
Like a city that finally sleeps,
click, click, click 
each melancholy light blinks out.
At rest,
folding a million times, aching, weeping, 

Lost are we and lost is the world,