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.

You who harbor resentment

You who harbor resentment,
Do you not know?
Your heart is a breeding ground
For that nasty crow.

She has nested on my shoulder
Pecking at my temples
Cawing in my ear
Making my head tremble.

Like a raven on a bust,
Only ever saying “nevermore.”
Reminding me who was preferred
In this ever-becoming lore.

I should have been chosen.
That person is a fool-
A pessimistic and narcissistic,
Low down idiot tool.

You who harbor resentment,
I know what eats you,
For I harbor it daily,
Against many, not a few.

White Privilege

I wrote this piece in the dead of winter and really debated sharing it. I hope you understand the density of it.

Tall and prickly, it gains weight
Slowly as white dust suffocates the green.
The strong trunk supports,
While the small branches sag.

It has no legs, but those underground.
It has no arms, but those that absorb.
Never moving, but always pushed.
Never changing color, except for branches hushed.

I have legs, always moving.
I have arms, always grabbing.
Always moving, but never pushed.
Always changing, but never rushed.

A bird rests on a branch,
Out of place in this season.
It flies away, wings flapping-
Able to escape.

Lighters Sparked


Pink scars, old guitars, and sweet cigars.
All perfectly lined, each in it’s own place.
The little pink soldiers shrink with age,
The pain that caused them fades.

The old guitars grant new scars
As callouses build on his fingertips.
Harmony that heals the heart
Flows from the hollow chest.

The cigars are lined on the table
Waiting to fulfill their purpose.
He strums chords, and tastes smoke,
As he waits for his friends.

They come sharing bare arms
Carrying old guitars
With lighters sparked.

Between Two Trees

Sheridan Park, between two trees
Strung by two strings, a hammock hangs
Water below rises and lowers
The grass bends to the water’s will
But these giant blades of grass resist
Even long after the green left
These two trees, dead decaying giants

A branch falls, a warning to me
An obnoxious old couple
Who love their lawn well decorated
One small sapling sits in the lawn
Protected by her parents from me
Their leaves sacrificed to give sun
When the two fall, there will be one

A hammock cannot be strung on
One small tree, descendant of giants

Hand-Me-Down Handwriting

My brother and I share handwriting.
An unfortunate hand-me-down.
Our father could have taught us fighting,
But instead gave us sloppy lines to decipher.

A gifted mind ignores fashion.
Imagery is only secondary.
They are instead for passion,
You will find mine,
In the hand-me-down handwriting.

Minister of Visitation

Minister of visitation,
of those in desperation.
Always listening.
Ears and soul on fire.

He spends days in the hospital,
Completely healthy and able.
Someday he will enter,
But never leave again.

Will anyone visit him?
Or have they all moved on?

Begging for relief

The bags under my eyes
Are heavier than the bags
In my left arm as it cries,
Begging, for relief.

It searches for what is not.
There is no relief,
For my arm or for the clot.
This clot making it’s way to my heart.

I stand on that bus,
Destination- nowhere.
Clenching the steel truss,
Begging for relief.

Returning to the simpleton,
Unsuccessful and unequipped.
“I told you so” to be common.
The bus goes further down it’s vein.

The boy who left town,
Now to return.
Empty handed, broken down.
With a sore arm, and a sore heart.

The fight of the willow

The Willow tree sings a song,
As it whips and slashes through wind.
It sounds as if it’s fighting, arguing,
The wind tears away branches,
Yet calls the Willow it’s friend.

A battle of whits and strength.
The branches know where to bend.
They take each blow with Grace.
They need neither your help, of mine.
For themselves, they can fend.

She is not an angel.

When we buried her on that strange hill,
They said, “Heaven gained an angel.”
I couldn’t help but question,
This comedic, yet pure accession.

I don’t believe people gain wings.
Or that they suddenly float, playing strings.
Don’t get me wrong, I believe in afterlife.
One of peace, one without strife.

But to say that we are strung up from heaven,
Perched like birds outside a seven-eleven,
Seems like a cheap representation,
Of our true, afterlife, manifestation.