Jul 01


Musty muggy Washington June evening:
A bedraggled begging man is sitting
on the side of the road, styrofoam cup
in hand, bgging for a way out of his life,
following the people passing by with eyes
like a flyaway receipt caught
in the wake of a speeding taxi.

My sister and I brought over our Mediterranean
leftovers, handed it to him with a smile, expecting a heartfelt
yet hasty thank-you, but no. He met my gaze
with unwavering veracity and crammed
60 years of his history into the minute I stood to listen.

I’m a retired alcoholic (good for you),
but didn’t play my rent this week (oh), it’s alright
but looking to get rid of my possessions, take
this baseball hat, original wizards’ cap (thank you very
muich sir, are you sure-?) yes yes no problem-
er, do you have a dollar for the subway?-
you see, I’m a poet, write for the local paper, I
have a copy, hang on, yes, here-
Jun 04


“excuse me, sir,
but what do you think you’re doing?
that girl is 12.

“how twisted is your mind
that you feel justified
to shout obscene things
at women half your age?

“you have no right
to talk to her that way.
what she does with her body
is her choice
and no matter how much
systematic desensitization
society puts us all through,
it is never ok
to think otherwise.

“no, it’s not a compliment.
a compliment looks like
excuse me, ma’am,
i was casually observing you
and happened to find you
very attractive.
thank you and goodbye.

not this profane BS
you’re trying to pull.

“bet you didn’t think
anyone would contradict you,
so used to using your words
to leave girls standing speechless
staring after you,
what did he just say?
well here it is.
May 20

Hey Politicians

Hey politicians.

Let's talk about something.

It's no longer an elephant in the room.
It's a elephant dancing on the chests of kindergarteners
making them choke for air.

The eyes of America's next generation
are rolling back in their heads
like your cups of tea roll in their saucers
as you sip idly and watch the news.

A sister's name is ment for soft goodnights,
something to slip between burst of laughter.
Not something to scream in terror
because the alarms are going off and you forgot to tell her you loved her.

When we said we wanted to live in a storybook,
we didn't mean some twisted dystopian
where we get shot at while learning.

Maybe you're not seeing clearly
because of all the blood and coins
covering up the truth.

How come we've seen so many "Child Dead" headlines
our minds have built up such an immunity to them
May 16

Unfinished Poetry

i am an unfinished poem,
a scattered collection
of words on a page.

i am a notebook handed back to the poet,
"it's not your best work."

i am the rip in a paper
where a pencil was so enthusiastic
it puncured its only means of communication:
a fleeting white butterfly
retreating so desperately
it breaks its own fragile wings.

i can find myself
in the careless penstroke
that finalizes an abrupt end
halfway through a stanza.

i am the though that flits around
in your head awhile,
the one from a few months back,
the one you knew meant something
but didn't spend enough midnights
figuring out.

i am a flyaway paper,
ripped out of a treasured journal,
too shallow to be kept.

i am an undeveloped metaphor
that doesn't quite make sense
because its meaning was lost
in incompletion.
May 13

for forever

all we see is          light

i can see your smile sometimes
a voice echo
          lounging in the
sundappled forest
          frolicking across a

watch the world pass          by

if you had(n’t gone) let me stay
but you-

it will be          alright

memories are ghosts
on a candlewick’s      f i n g e r t i p s
you always had a way
ofslip    pingthro ughth   ecracks


which way?
whichever way

May 01

travel edition

it was only
in a foreign city,
lamplights illuminating
on the street,
i couldn’t understand
filling my ears,
the dark night above
speared by skyscrapers.

- & I had never felt more at home.
the smell
of chlorine
& late nights
still lingers
on my suitcase.

- far far away

is a word
with a thousand
i want to live
each & every
one of them.

- grab your camera, let's go 

Apr 24

Young Writers Project

Young Writers Project.
I can't believe less than a year ago
I didn't know this site existed.
Now I am always logging on
to see if my friends have posted anything new,
if anyone has replied to my feedback,
if the latest edition of The Voice is out.
To me, it's a place I can be totally honest
and I know that will be met with nothing but positivity.
It's nurtured my writing so much
taught me it's ok to mess up the first time,
taught me my actions have a consequence,
taught me poetry doesn't have to rhyme.
And I feel we all know each other
even if it's through a screen,
because words have bridged the gap.
It is constant refuge
to remind me I'm not alone.
A place to be heard.
A way to escape education
and gain some knowledge.
Because in a world where youth
think of writing as a burden,
we know the truth.
After all,
Apr 11


So you say you can hear the stars.
You claim they whisper your name
how it echoes through light years
to reach you standing in the dark.
But the stars speak ancient languages of balance and burn.
So you say you are made of their bones.
You're sure their dust pumps through your veins
making you blaze bright
lifting you up away from the rest of us.
But there are 26 trillion miles seperating you and them.

The stars bear the weight
of wishes out the bedroom window
thousands of unanswered messages
they do not care to read.

The stars carry the burden
of countless poems over the years
writers romanticizing their celestial beauty
while they are millions of miles away.

The stars host the strain
of lovers who continue to claim their elegance
speaking them into each others’ eyes,
they exhausted after being "rewritten" so many times.
Apr 02


They called her rose, briar rose,
but when she bloomed, they cowered.
She raised her voice, her petals to the sun
and stained much more than her lips scarlet.
So they put her to sleep.

They called her sunshine,
and swathed her in golden curls
but when she shone, their eyes blistered
and when she burned, they couldn't see through the smoke.
So they locked her in a tower.

They called her beauty,
captivated by her outward projection of grace
Her beauty was what blinded them
to the nebula of a mind inside her.
So they shunned her for her uniqueness.

They called her sugar,
skin as rich and deep as chocolate
got through life working twice as hard as any of them
and succeed through flavors of triumph and tears of salt.
So they told her she’d never make it.      

They called her glass,
Mar 29

old town

late afternoon sun
filters through the old picket fence
casting rows of shadow
on dry brown earth.
a matted brown and white cat
streatches lazily on the fence
flexing its dirt caked claws
in the orange light.
nothing ever happens in that town
it's made of chipped paint and abandoned dreams.
but the sun still lies down there
and the cat knows it will return, soon.
it always comes back
to that sad old town
so the cat can bathe
in it's dying warmth.
Mar 25


A happy young couple, posed and smiling, holding up a shiny new house key.
The woman grinning, one hand over bulging stomach, the other clutching a tiny pair of shoes and a teddy bear.
Two hands in the dark. Grasping each other, both pale and sweaty.
Three faces. Two exhausted, awe-filled new parents. One tiny baby. All three full of love.
A small hospital band sitting atop a birth certificate.
A small baby gurgling with laughter as the mother tickles her.
A laughing father and screaming baby in a high chair. Both covered in applesauce.
Older girl now, standing in front of preschool building with an overly large backpack.
Dad holds birthday cake alive with candles. Largest one is in the shape of a number 7.
Mar 24

What I Remember

I remember
six years ago
sitting at the dinner table
staring wide eyed at my parents
who were telling me that today,
20 kids my age
had been shot and killed.
At school.
And I remember
walking into school the next day,
glancing at the classroom door every so often
in half hearted anticipation
of a man bursting in with a gun.
I was in second grade.

I remember
three years ago
kneeling on the carpet in my classroom
fear pumping through my veins
as my teacher told our class what to do
if a shooter broke in.
I remember her words,
telling us that if we were in the bathroom during an alarm,
to stand on the toilet
so they couldn’t see our feet.
And I remember
avoiding the bathroom
and nearly wetting my pants every day
because I was absolutely terrified
of getting stuck in there alone.
I was in fourth grade.
Mar 18


Dear Coach,
My sincere apologies.
I didn't intend
to hurt you that badly.
It was just that
When you looked me in the eye
and told me
my sister couldn't play with the boys
because she was a girl
I had to kick you.
I know violence isn't the answer,
if I could go back,
I would've screamed at you instead.
But you weren't gonna let her play.
So I kicked you
where it hurt the most
and told my sister
to go beat the boys.
She did.
She won.