May 08

Window Breathing

May 03

Raining Conversation

"Do you like the rain?"

"What kind
of question is that?" 

"I don't know,
I was just curious..." 

"okay"

"okay"

"Yes,
I like it...
of course I do." 

"It's like breathing?" 

"exactly" 




Recently I have started writing poetry I call "Dialogue Poetry".
It's a poem where two people are talking back and forth.
Sometimes there is a face attached to the other side of a Dialogue Poem
and sometimes it's just a voice.
Other times I'm watching from afar, not involved in the conversation at all... 
Other times I'm in another person's body. It's expiremental and fun. 
May 01

The 5 Best Things


Today at school 
we were asked to list
the five best things about life. 

It came quickly to me,
the way I love the world 
and the way it fits
into my head is complete.
Like the way a river fills up its banks. 

1) Laughing 
I like the way it forms
in my mouth.
The way it's smooth on my tounge.
Bubbly and overwhelming.

I could laugh in my sleep if I knew how...
sometimes I think I do,
in dreams maybe. 

It's like breathing honey.

2) The Rain 
It falls every night
before I close my eyes. 
I think

I like the way
it slides down the window,
quietly,
tears from the clouds. 
But I'm sure it's not because they're lonely. 

I like the way it sounds 
on the roof. 
The way it puts me to sleep. 

3) People
It's hard to explain
the way others complete me.

But it's living 
Apr 24

Being Alive

I like to lie in bed each night
and listen to my breathing.

I like to savor the way
the air pulls so easily
in and out of me
like it was made to be the tide
instead of my life. 

I listen to the street sounds
and the way the whole world
slows down
with each passing hour.

It's the way the rain sounds
on the roof
or the way the candle flickers
against my walls,
tracing shapes of long lost memories.

Times when breathing
wasn't something I had to worry
about continuing.

Times when running
was a normal act of life
and not something made for saving it. 
 
Apr 24

Remembering the Sun

He laughs like the sun. 

I don't remember meeting you
for the first time,
don't remember the way
you shook my hand
or the way you might have
smiled.
I don't remember meeting you
for the first time. 
But I know that sometime soon after,
I learned how to sing again. 

I don't remember the way
you might have shone
when I wrote my first letters again.

Scrawled onto the back
of some lost ticket stub
(for words are always
things crafted from broken shards).

Or the way you might have
gone numb at the way my broken-up words
sat so plainly on the paper,
like maybe they could save you
before you saved them.

Like maybe the poetry of childhood
was written long before someone
could comprehend
what the word
"percosious" meant.

I don't remember hearing you
laugh for the first time.

You reminded me
Apr 23

Regrets of the Runaway

I could have run away today.
I could have just done it...
could have just hopped on a bus
heading south.
South to the city.

I would have been so easy,
so easy. And I

didn't do it. 
I feel trapped again today.
I can't breathe. 
Again. 

I could have run away.
I could have run
away today, and I didn't. 

Freedom never comes for free.

Is it still running away
if I don't know
what I'm running from? 

I could have just left today. 
I didn't. 
 

Apr 16

The Way Some Live


You don't know the kind of pain 
he described that morning. 

"It's not the kind
that's easy to explain."
Not the kind of feeling, he told
you, that's easy
to wash away with a little soap.

You're not sure what to call that kind of pain.
The kind that brings 
you to the dark bathroom each night, 
sitting on the clammy tile floor.

Near the toilet.
In case you decide that maybe
it would feel better
to flush the water
down the bottom of the drain,
to watch it wash away
some feeling you didn't even
know was smeared on you. 

He says
he wonders why the crickets
keep singing
through all this horror. 
“It's because they can't see
how the stream washes away the blood." 

You tell him to hold his breath. 

Maybe it's the kind of pain, you guess,
that hides in the dry spot under the sink,

Apr 14

Like Before

It’s like they say
when the sky floats above 
gravity,
like it was purposefully put higher
than me just to intimidate 
the rest of us. 

It’s like they say 
when the ground breaks free
from its roots 
and crumbles in my shoes,
like somehow it’s supposed
to be this dirty  
when we all fall to pieces.

It’s like they say
when we laugh 
as if the sun never floated 
on the mountain top 
this morning; still 

holding hope in something 
that never loved you back.
Something that can’t pull together
as well as it used to. 
 

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