Repetition, Repetition, Repetition

Ever since I was struck
With a senseless need
For repetition, repetition, repetition,
I find myself lesser on knees.

Standing and sitting more
By a notebook or computer
Searching two ways: one
Helps while the other brings me further.

The former warms my hands
While the latter pushes blood
From finger tips as if
Not allowed in the formed duds.

White I write my heart pours
Out onto the notepad by
way of cheap pens and paper.
My heart is anything but shy.

Meanwhile the tapping of the keys
The rap, rap, rapping of buttons
Entertains my dull mind,
As I follow the traditional shut-ins.

Growth Begotten by Digging

When I was six or seven,
I fought back tears.
Induced by a silent family
And loud kids at school.

When I was six or seven,
I watered my own roots.
Strength begotten by pain,
Growth begotten by digging.

Now that I am old
I ignore my problems.
And though my tears are dry,
Doubtless, I have many more.

Hiding, buried, watering roots.

Dirty Hairy

Froth breaks as I dip my tea,
Wishing I had brought headphones.
Choosing to ignore those around me.
The music is lulling, the conversations drone.

A Dirty Hairy; steamed milk and Earl Grey.
A hint of sweetness on my tongue
The heat of my drink burns less than what they say-
Words of envy, gossip, and high-strung.

A pile rests on my table of waved wood.
Phone atop of Bible, metaphysically true
I know I should, and totally could,
But there it sits, second in crew.

Shadowboxes rest with plain white frames.
The pictures inside match the frames plainness
Strange patterns of green and purples flames
Being sold for ninety-five dollars.  Painless.

This place is all too real, it exists.
Full of pretentiousness
Which fully insists
Contentiousness

I am a simple pickpocket

He smoked his single cigarette upwind
Noticing the tears welling in my eyes,
“Does this bother your?” He grinned.
“No, it’s just the wind.” Partly true, partly lies.

He asked me my name and my story.
I gave him the short answer,
One of ease, with little worry.
I didn’t ask for his, I pondered cancer.

He asked for my help, I knew he would.
He had no job, no home, and no phone.
He said if he had a phone, then he could.
A cheap twenty-dollar purchase, just to be known.

I told him I could help a little,
Feeling cornered, I reached into my pocket.
Retrieved four dollars, crumpled and brittle.
Unbeknownst to him, I was a simple pickpocket.

For in my right pocket, was five dollars,
And in my left was another forty.
Instead of stealing material from him,
I stole his chance of a new life.

The Messy Bun

A messy bun sits neatly on her head.
I never understood the name.
Messy, yet done perfectly-
Every hair in place, every thread.

Except those ones that frame her face.
They are neatly tucked on the side,
Hiding the tips of her ears,
Right where they need to be, in place.

The frame showcases her freckles,
Hiding slightly in the winter,
Returning from hibernation in summer.
Like light on a jewel, a freckled face sparkles.

Let me lament for you

Let me lament for you, my brother.
Though from the womb of another,
I feel your pain in my veins-
Your blood on my sleeve stains.

Let me lament for you my sister,
Your skin empowers like a twister.
No bounds are known to be due
Except those I impose on you.

A white knight in white skin
My love a mile wide, but thin skin.
My arrogance thick like syrup
I only speak words to stir-up.

My brothers and sisters, I lament.
Not for you, but with you.
Teach me about my arrogance,
And lament for me.

Call me out!

Ripped pages lie on the ground,
My writing desk, they surround.
Broken ideas, wrong thoughts-
Scattered like broken pots.

They are the fodder of my mind.
The chaff of my kind
Born to share and write,
Born to hide in plain sight.

I am always watching others,
Noting their steps and stutters.
Will they notice mine?
Or do I cover them fine?

I offer my wrists for you to see.
Study them as your own, for me.
Call out my contradictions
and convictions
Make me face them as if in rehab
For addictions

Give me grace and truth,
Sit me down, in a corner booth.
Listen to my sedimentary whine,
Until 2am and we resign.

I will call you the next day,
And share the same stories.
This time, with more details,
And more lies

I mourn for those who fall

Inspired by Twenty One Pilots, Neon Gravestones.


I want to scare you with an idea.
A thought shared with me a year ago.
Our society chooses death,
When there is more to this show.

I will not celebrate it.
The sweet release from fight,
A fight given to ever human,
The thing which is a given right.

I mourn for those who fall,
Knowing I want to be them.
I mourn for those who fall,
Only wanting to condemn.