heal myself

in my dreams at night

you ask for my forgiveness

like a phantom on the wind

carrying visions

of what could have been

but when I come to

I turn you down

for this charade won’t mend

the dreams that were dashed

or the moments that were stolen

before anything could really begin

instead I whisper as I wake

you can’t make me whole again

the parts were never missing

just lost inside

and I’ll heal myself

as I find each one

and return it to

its rightful place again


for everything

we've lost

and everything

we still have yet to find

lord, give us courage

courage to keep walking

though the way seems dark

and the end not in sight

lord, give us courage

courage to still hope

that we may say

nevertheless they persisted

lord, give us courage

courage to never cease

loving each other recklessly

heart surgery

tell me what you see,

when you walk through those doors,

opening into,

a speckled white hall,

sterile by demand,


but the doctors and,

nurses don't wear scrubs or coats,

and carry their knives,

instead of scalpels,

rusted from neglect,


and those misdiagnosed,

from a supposed cancer of heart,

are carted off,

to unsafe surgeries,

by their ignorance,


in operations,

patients are strapped down,

but not sedated,

because this hardship will,

improve their own health,


but above the haze,

of medical anesthetics,

these patients may or,

may not know their cancer,

is only a false prognosis,


and that the doctors,

want to excise their hearts,

for treason against,

their laws of medicine,

that haven't been passed,


so they now campaign,

for treatment to cure,

the newest disease,

they claim to have found,

a cardiac infection,


some people believe,

others will blatantly reject,

this innovation,

that leaves its patients,

with unnecessary scars,


because they trust them,

on a blind faith reserved for,

only superstition,

but what if it was,

really religion itself,


sponsoring incisions,

to carve out patients' hearts,

on misconceptions,

of what they can or can't,

feel or harbor within?



Maybe roses didn’t always have thorns.

What if they grew them to protect the frailty of our hearts,

To warn us of the neuroticism of fantasy,

That spews lies about romanticism,

Supposedly sealing its essence behind petals and chlorophyll?


Maybe the roses knew better than us,

That four letters encompass much more than mere emotion,

But we’ve deluded ourselves into believing,

In gestures and rules about courtship,

When empirical theories can’t begin to encapsulate this dance of affection.


Maybe the roses were trying to teach us,

How to actually love without conditions that hinder,

So they prick our fingertips and draw blood,

To pierce our hearts and spurn nonchalance,

But we shunned their wisdom and chose to indulge fairytales and false magic instead.


Maybe we should’ve listened to the roses,

When they said we’d have to work and fight pain,

As we toiled in our own gardens in order,

To grow the love we dream about at night.

Now these thorns are the only remnants left reaching out for our attention.

good people

what is darkness?

what is light?

the world, the church, the sun, the night?

everyone says,

something else,

but no one can decide who the hell is right,

there are people,

good and bad,

in every corner, from every line of sight,

so maybe if,

we tried a little harder,

if we had a little more faith, we just might,

be able to see,

more good people,

instead worrying whether or not we’re right

sometimes, love


I find myself questioning what it is,


Because I’ve been told so many different things.



They say it’s what you see in all the films,


It’s what two people feel for each other inside.


Other times,

It’s all wrapped up in religious fervor,


An isolated, solely spiritual construct.


But sometimes,

Existing as an interlocking of hands,


Bubbles up from a smile breached spring.



Filling moments of deciphered silence,


Also fills the small of his back.



Other times,

Longing to simply be with another,


Asks him how forever might seem.



I find myself questioning what it is,


Because I’ve been told so many times mine’s defective.




Do you think the clouds feel heavy

When they carry seas in their bellies,

Waiting to unburden themselves in a downpour,

Or a slow drizzle when they can’t bear the weight

Of a thousand tears pulled down by gravity?


Do you think the clouds feel lost or lonely,

Drifting along the atmospheric tides,

As perpetual nomads with no rest,

Traveling by night and by day,

Not knowing where they’ll go or arrive?


Do you think the clouds would tell their stories

Of the endless journeys they’ve made,

All the lands and peoples they’ve seen,

And all the waters they’ve weathered and crossed,

If we only just asked them to?


Do you think we’d even believe their words

If they told us everywhere they’d been,

Places we humans can only dream of,

Untold, unseen, unexplored, and unimaginable?

Do you ever think about the clouds?



where do memories live?

in all the crevices of your long term memory,

where they’re crammed down,

waiting for a prompt from the temporal world,

to rouse them from the depths,

of the storage banks in your brain,

like worms tunneling towards the rain?


or perhaps fragments,

reside partially in the places they’re conceived,

where they lie latent,

waiting to be ushered back into the,

realm of conscious thoughts by,

the physical presence of one,

in the spaces where mind meets matter.