Occasionally I will pantomime my dreams, accidentally,
into a mistaken reality wherein I am a dreamer
but more than that I am me, undeniably so. My hands are
spurned, driven mad, up and down as they burn scribbled
charades into the air and then suspend them; as if
my actions alone brought them to life. Seconds pass
and they live half-lives with no voice, rather my breathing beats
air into their lack of physical being and provides them with heart.
Heart enough for millions from one barely enough for me and it
will forever beat, until my real charade is given voice by another.


Beyond Attitudes

Beyond attitudes frost lingers
as the chills from open apprehension
spread across hardwood floor boards, endearing,
no one with suspended breath.

Hanging on the edge of a second
slipping away: farther, closer, quicker.
Minutes memorialize each
unrealized moment.


Why must I maintain my relationship with
God, in the confines of a church?

Or according to the teaching of a religious leader?
For my relationship with God is private.

Self-contained and expressed just the same.

My body is the temple,
my heart is the altar,
my thoughts are the scripture
voiced through my words and
validated into something tangible
through my actions.

Lastly my soul,
my soul is His
warmed forever as it bathes in
His light on a level I
could have never achieved in a group.


That wave, undertow envelops,
and through pushing pulls me beneath.
I gasp, choking on salty nothings
fighting fictitious waves to no avail,
for on your tongue an unsaid narrative hangs.
Dying, wrapped at the throat while
trying to sink me, deeper yet
and I succumb, alone, to unrelenting you as
I find myself stuck somewhere
between crossroads.

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.


Uneven days
close curtains
on our
fabricated thoughts
held together
by strands
of unseen
violet dreams
reflecting themselves
off others
until finally
molded by
life’s kiln
with craftsmanship
achieved through
an artisan’s
uneven touch.