Blind stumbles numb my hands
smacking into half-painted walls
leaving smudged reminders, of where
I am or was but exuding no direction,
my fingers point up and left right,
with no care for etiquette riddling to each
onlooker my worries; what will become of a
man who feels lost in his home.


Stick Figures

Free-form sticks figure on the wall
playfully smudged, during hide n’ seek,
camouflaging vain innocence touched
only through distilled light
allowed entry into the home by passing
silken tests that sway uniform to nothing,
but the seconds, humming aloud
breaking the echoes of childish breath
hastily hushed when driven out in anticipation
by the sight of my feet from their haven.

Without Light

With the lights turned
out on us I held
our last source,
winding a procession
between the two rooms
of our home; decorating
hidden shivers concealed
behind forced smiles and
physical restraint, we have to
be strong, our windows
iced over revealing ourselves
painted with the smiles we drew
utilizing benumbed fingers
gathering icy droplets
underneath our pale nails
imprinting us all with
a final childish smile before
the candle burns out.

Rural Dreams

Obsidian sunrise shelves the
evergreens nocturnal illumination.

Canines deafeningly mask
chilling eastward howls.

Storms slowly pacify
symphonic cricket violinists.

Untouched crimson-bricks
set aglow framing the family fire.


Grandfather explained his passing
delicately with whistled speech,
disregarding doctors notes and crafting
his own, revealing himself slowly
telling me that; snakes,
burrow beneath his hands
creating tunnels for veins
as their fangs sink into his knuckles
setting up a poison drip causing
monstrous creaks every time
he extends his hands, fingers reaching
for an antidote to cool that fire
inflaming his heart and eventually…
I understood.

Moving On

How can I know if I
have moved on,
actually separated my past
with my present while
obstructing you from my future?
Is the answer in my words,
visible in how I talk to my friends or family?
Who might interpret my
words as an act to veil my true feelings,
but don’t my actions define my thoughts
or is it the reverse,
in which my thoughts tell me how to
act, speak, feel?
So how can I know if I am really
over you?
How can I define my infinite actions,
speculate over how I articulate,
and muse over my thoughts
when now
I am reflecting on you, us, me.

When I Was Young

When I was young I would look down,
hiding inside of myself to avoid
looks from others as I was different,
I spoke in my own way
expressing myself inexhaustibly until I
used my entire vocabulary in a breath
but I was never heard
So I looked down.
For when I looked up I was ignored,
given looks from above that
chained my young mind aging me,
I was given words that were foreign to me but
made especially for those a little different,
and so I look down,
away from my parents
who never heard either,
away from my teachers who practiced passivity
but questioned mine.
So I looked down and saw the stairs
leading me up
away from the crowded ground
allowing me to look down,
see where I came from
forcing me to look up,
away from the sadness beneath and speak
my foreign unwanted words
until not only myself, but everyone could hear
so even if they cannot understand
they could feel the passion in my words
both crucifying and forgiving the world simultaneously.