Sunday, April 22, 2018


You have a gift
but it's not what you think.

It isn't the talent
in your hands
or your mind
that makes you unique. 

It is your ego,
your bravado
and all the ways
you shut out the voices
who try 
to make you better. 

If only you would listen,
your myopic vision
could expand
beyond the horizon
of desperation
you have set.

But perfection
can't be improved.
You aren't a first draft,
you're the printed copy.

Don't we all see
it's us, 
not you, right?

How many more 
will you go through
before you see
you are the only variable
connecting everyone?

I smile as you move on
to another
and then another
because the truth is
even your insecurity
isn't original.

Wednesday, January 10, 2018


You slam everyone 
who stands by 
and acts as an observer 
to the wreck you've made 
of your life,
like rubberneckers 
on a highway 
passing a four-car pile-up 
as if you have always 
taken part 
in the lives 
around you. 

Where were you 

when it all fell apart 
for me 
and I begged you 
to just spend 
a minute in it with me?

You were sitting 

judge and jury 
like you understood 
my pain and fury — 
something you still don’t get — 
not yet. 

I hope you never do. 

You watched 

my world 
and then wondered 
why I was mad 
you never came around. 

I always had to come to you, 

no matter what 
I was going through — 
drive across town, 
fly across country, 
make it happen 
even when I didn’t want to. 

It’s always about you — 

who did you wrong, 
who did you right, 
who you wish would do you again, 
your dreams you chase, 
the goals you make, 
the life you are or aren’t living. 

I have stood by, 

silent all these years, 
supporting and forging
my way forward,
waiting for you to get it, 
to see I am here 
as your friend and equal,
not your cheerleader or servant. 

But you don’t get it. 

Maybe you never will. 

So, you’re right — 

fuck the spectators. 

Tuesday, December 19, 2017


Your words fall out
of your mouth like black tar;
they are cyanide, an instant death,
to my fragile heart.

You throw hatred at me
like Molotov cocktails,
setting fire to my love
as every breath fails.

You burn me to the ground
with all of your lies and secrets;
and you smile as I disappear,
like you have no regrets.

The wind picks up my ashes
and whisks me away,
holds me tight in the night sky
and keeps me safe.

The stars collect my pieces,
the dust you made of me,
and they put me back together,
held in place by gravity.
They breathe light into my soul,
illuminating me;
you didn't win and I am finally
who I was meant to be.


I speak
on a frequency
you can't hear
so I speak
until my voice

I raise my hand
but you never call
on me
like I'm imaginary,
a blind spot
no one can see.

I'm not here.
I don't exist.
I'm just a memory
though I'm standing
right here.

you won't even remember
my name.
you don't remember


I sit stunned,
like your words
are a taser gun
on full blast,
hitting my skin,
my lips,
my brain
in one angry jolt.

I play them again
and the epiphany
blooms like a violet.

I cannot move,
or speak
as I listen
to you rewrite
I witnessed.

I was there. 
I know what happened. 
Don't I?

But now
you reveal
the last piece, 
like a puzzle thief
holding out
until the end -
keeping the victory
in your back pocket
so no one else
could have the glory.

I saw only two sides
of the story
I lived
but I didn't see
the masked man
hiding the truth
behind the door.
Your side
stayed in the shade
like a shadow
for the sun 
to fade
and hoping the moon
didn't out you.

But I see you. 

Now my eyes
are open
and clear
with the Visine
of the truth
you speak.

You're in HD,
4K Ultra,
bright as daylight. 

You're a criminal
playing dress up
as a gentleman
who never had
anyone's interests
at heart but his own.

I should've known.

Sunday, November 26, 2017

Freedom Cry

If your words
were fists,
I’d be black
and blue.

I wouldn’t
really exist;
I’d be nothing
but walking
scar tissue.

But then maybe
you’d see
all the damage
you’ve done to me,
and the world
would finally
see it too.

Until then,
I could pretend
they are
a string of syllables
falling out your mouth,
nothing sensible
anyone can make out;
nothing that can hurt
or denounce
or discriminate
or sound
like hate -

just utterances
of love,
of what was,
of being enough,
and all the other stuff
you are too tough
to say.

Now it’s too late.

No one knows
what you did.
Only my memory
of it exists.
Only I am the one
who has to live
with it,
and the shadows
and the scars
you left.

But I am
still here,
and there is
only one thing
I know for sure:

you can’t hurt me

Knowledge Is Power

I remember the phone call
from twenty years ago;
not the text
as much as the tone. 

I still don't know
why your rage
onto me like hot lava.

We were just friends.
You'd said it over
and over
and over again. 

in one random conversation,
we were nothing. 

What had I done? 
I still don't know. 
I have suspicions,
but what's done is done.

Time spun 
us out
in different directions,
like two tops
once together,
now apart.

But the years
brought you back
like clockwork,
and I opened the door,
hoping to get answers.

I never got them,
but we became friends.

It was tentative.

Growing up
had made us both
to words
and sentence currents,
the undertones
and underbellies
of emotions.

Words became
instead of meaningful
and what was
never became
the love
we were both
looking for. 

Promises got lost
in the shuffle of life
and one wounded heart
urged a wandering eye,
while the other wounded heart
let it all die. 

I'd rather be alone
than afraid of loneliness.
I'd rather not know
than feel like I'm less
than who you expected.

You moved on.
I haven't. 
I'm still the same,
still without answers. 

So many words
have passed
between our lips.
So many questions
still exist.
What could've been
never was,
but I don't think
it would've been 

Our memories
still make me smile,
especially the quote wars
and how we laughed
until we cried,
but you went your way
and I have gone mine,
and you're the only one
who knows why.

Maybe someday
I'll know too.