Posted in poetry, writing


I’ve been an antagonist

towards my favorite people

and even still,

memories of those instances

pour over me, thick and oily,

tough to remove.

I don’t like to be reminded

that I was a child once,

that I sat with legs limp over the edge

of my mother’s bookshelf;

frozen but watching.

It’s the growing process,

I’m told,

and while I’m forgiven,

I can’t seem to release myself

from the threshold

of preadolescent tantrum.

I wasn’t alone,

but that’s not my concern;

don’t these patterns repeat,

and am I conscious enough

to feel them coming on?

Am I mature enough

to slam the brakes

before they fail?

Posted in Life, poetry, writing

In Jest

I joke;

you laugh

and I am funny

you like me

I try again;

you smirk

I fall short

I’m no good

you hate me

I can’t stay

I go now

Posted in poetry, writing


The low hum comes from the snow plow drum

on the streets that crumble like they’re free of gluten

You could mend them if You’re out there like it’s written

or is Yours just a name of theory

like that of Rasputin?

I pull back the covers of my childhood blunders

and I am finally free to escape the searing clutch of my blindfold

While I’m not made of money or of gold

it’s still a beautifully irreverent thing

to have your mind sold