Tag: 2025

The sky’s pretty hue cannot be seen
It’s far too cloudy, the weather far too mean
But I know the beauty will always persist
Regardless of the rain, the gusts, or the mist
For I know this gloomy weather is only for today
Perhaps tomorrow, the Sun shall shine again
So for this moment, I learn to embrace
What I cannot control, and what I fear to face
For life is but a game of ebbs and flows
You must learn to play and adhere to its rules
And if you refuse, you’ll favor no fortune
So take a moment to savor life’s kiss on your chin
Days will pass, long nights are assured
But if you possess hope, then you shall endure
And if you embody love, all will be proven
To bring you prosperity, and a destiny woven
With feats that are sure to form a strong mind
And a heart that beats and allures all that are kind
Is this not our purpose, to be beings of love?
And with hate at a surplus, something must be done
So I challenge you all to widen your gaze
To open your hearts and lighten your face
To share a smile, and a laugh, with those in need
To be sure that not one, but all, may succeed

the crisp, numb ground
crunches below a pair of designer slippers
approaching a glass greenhouse

with the creak of the door
cautious eyes trail from within
the configuration of cultivation

beneath an archway of wisteria
the humid air grows thicker
as tempting tongues
snap at each other

soon they begin to drip
an aloe-like secretion
better at repairing wounds than any other salve
before they collide spirited as a venus fly trap
snaring its unsuspecting prey

cheeks flush as flourished snapdragons’
clothes wilt away
bodies burst sudden and fragrant
as moonflowers
leaving only a milky sap along the pathway
that tomorrow’s groundskeeper will suspect as sow thistle

my body freezes
i blink as my mouth
runs dry.
what do i know about myself?
who am i?
i, as a human being,
am shaped by my experiences
so why, when asked this question
can i not answer?

i try to think about
the hundreds of things i could share
and yet, when i open my mouth,
nothing seems to come out.
sometimes i wish
that i was just like everyone else;
that we all shared the same favorites,
the same experiences,
making connections easier to form.
i wouldn’t have to lie
because i am blanking on my favorite movie.
i would know how to answer
“tell me about yourself”
because we would all already
know each other so well.

why can’t i answer?
why is memory so fleeting?
i can more easily recite
stories my dad tells me
about his time in his rock-and-roll band,
or how old my mother was
when she moved to america.
i would rather talk about them
over something i like
or something that has happened to me.
and i realized this is because
i don’t value my experience.

so when you ask me to tell you about myself
i will probably say something
about why i chose to be a finance major
or about my hometown
and when you ask me my favorite song
or my favorite outfit
i will probably make something up
or say the first thing that comes to mind
and then change the subject to you.
and then,
who knows,
maybe you will tell me a half-truth too.

Can I face what I claim to believe?
To rekindle the flame to believe?

The sin in my voice, my thoughts, my life,
Will overwhelm my pain to believe.

With red hot rods, sinners sear brands in my flesh.
They think I should be ashamed to believe.

Does God weep for me while on this fiery bed?
Where I will wail, be maimed, and believe.

Ashes paint my back on the ridges of scars.
Engulfed in hellish red, I still exclaim “I believe.”

God looks beyond my torment and gives
Forgiveness that I aim to believe.

In His eyes, I hold Faith in my heart.
And I choose my own name to believe.

What if when I walk down that dark alley
he falls out of the shadows
the red-eyed maniac on the heel of my footsteps?

What if I run away through the door
and find his blue and white flame on my skin
as he whisks away his cloak
and burns off my clothes?

What if I trip over the rug
and he jumps on my body
tastes my face with his forked tongue
claws at me the whole way to the bed
pushes me into the sheets until I drown?

What if he crawls into my mouth
and doesn’t come out until
he’s devoured my soul
and pinched my blood with his talons
digging and digging
and drinking all of me?

What if he breaks into me
snuffs the light inside
charrs everything in seconds
as if I wasn’t screaming through his teeth
while the red eyes roll over black
and my ribs crack under him
so I suffocate in his fire?

What if —

What if it already happened?

Plastic vessels rooting into
your nostrils, the oxygen dances inside
forcing another drum of a beat.
The machine’s green dot,
she works overtime,
reminding us of her presence.
Her unwanted,
uninvited presence.
Another section of the body laying off its workers.
The strength of all departments
in your 99-year-old body
rallied and quit.
Your mind is cartwheeling.
Heaven, looking more inviting.
Don’t cry when I leave you.
My heart, a tinfoil ball,
trying to hold in all my emotions, not letting a
crumb seep out. Thinking that I support your choice–
of hospice.
I don’t.
It’s selfish and I sound screwy.
Can you blame me? I need you.

You’re my diary, I am motivated to keep
alive by telling you of my days.
You preach advice, guidance,
you give me the dad
I never had.
I stop and look at you.
I admire the wrinkles walking across your forehead,
your eyelids growing tired, like magnets, connecting,
and then separating.

What would have happened if I
told you I loved you, just once more?

Reality is, I will never know.
Reality is, it drives me insane.

What would have happened if you
told the truth in therapy?

The magician in your mind tricked you,
making you believe you were better off dead
than alive.

Would you be here?

Abracadabra.

My stomach, a dining room of wings
as my shaky bow first slides the strings
of a tuneless Cello who screeches
that I’d become a lepidopterist.

When my steady bow slides the strings
my butterflies mollifyingly sing
that I’ve become a lepidopterist,
after years of antennas and sonatas.

My butterflies vociferously sing
my music fades, though they cling
after decades of antennas and sonatas
Death to my Cello and I, eaten by butterflies.

My music fades, though they cling
to extinguished aspirations and velvety things
Death to my Cello and I, eaten by butterflies
My stomach, a dining room of wings.

Desperate to escape
the voiceless chatter
in my head
that rings like thousands of cicadas
hiding in the trees.

I swim through quicksand.
Fists grip individual grains.
I try to dig my way out.

The voices become louder and louder,
echo off the shoreline
breeding claustrophobia in open water.

The magic of my arena,
Where past daemons rest,
has vanished.
Floating here was my secret asylum.
Now I am its inmate.

My flight becomes futile.
With limp limbs, bated breath,
I surrender.

I welcome its embrace.
It enfolds me in its bosom.
The still water cradles me into its bed.

Numbness enters my heart.
Tranquility fills my soul.
Escape is impossible.

A cardinal sings
and I shatter again.
I need a splash of wine to ease my sorrows.
The grief has spilled just
as blood spills from eternal wounds
and ruby lesions spread.
I want the taste of paprika
and ripe cherries to suppress the misery.
Anything to relieve my anguish.
Gushing rivers of passion
set me aflame,
and my devotion, so palpable,
glides like a scarlet kingsnake
slithering through the water.
When I have lost my composure,
there is nothing
like the whispers of roses
rustling in the breeze
to tame my wild nerves.
But the roses wilt and burn
beneath flames that consume,
and I am afflicted
by the crimson pain.