Saturday, August 27, 2011


"I Write Poems Often"- A Poem

 I write poems often
But there are certain ones
I don’t share.
They have scratches and are sharp
So sharp they could slice skin
Or a funny shaped muscle
Found in the center of you.
And I don’t consider this one of them
You know, one of those poems that are great
In every way.
They don’t have to be great all the time
That’s not the objective
Because there isn’t one
At least for me
I don’t do this because I want attention
Or acceptance
I just want peace and a place I can lay my thoughts down
Without them being woken up.

Friday, August 26, 2011


Why is it
That the people
Who least deserve
What they want,
Get it?

Thursday, August 25, 2011

"Marching Bands of Manhattan"- Death Cab for Cutie

If I Could Open My Arms
And Span the Length of the Isle of Manhattan
I'd Bring It to Where You Are
Making a Lake of The East River And Hudson

If I Could Open My Mouth
Wide Enough For A Marching Band To March Out
They Would Make Your Name Sing
And Bend Through Alley's And Bounce Off all the Buildings

I Wish We Could Open Our Eyes
To See In All Directions At The Same Time
Oh, What A Beautiful View
If You Were Never Aware Of What Was Around You

And It Is True What You Said
I Live Like A Hermit In My Own Head
When The Sun Shines Again
I'll Pull The Curtains And Blinds To Let The Light In

Sorrow Drips Into Your Heart
Through A Pinhole
Just Like Faucet That Leaks
And There Is Comfort In The Sound
But While You Debate
Half Empty Or Half Full
It Slowly Rises, Your Love Is Gonna Drown

Your Love Is Gonna Drown (x4)
Your Love Is Gonna

Friday, August 19, 2011

In Words

"All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you: the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was. If you get so that you can give that to people, then you are a writer"
-Ernest Hemingway

Monday, August 15, 2011

"A Sort Of Pondering"- A Poem

I breathe into the place with
The secret trees that cast shadows
Across my pale porcelain face
And the jacket, frayed ends and all,
Smelling like a fire, blazing, churning
With my reflection gazing at the stars
There were so many, like a jewelry box,
Only fit for diamond stud earrings
I felt a sense of still
Like God placed his hands on my shoulder,
And sent peace through my fingertips
My heart started up its chaos just then
I began to see the things I’d forgotten
Or meant to forget and never had the time
So I sat quietly on the rock by the creek
About how I was a little lost
Not physically, but in my head
And how I don’t really know my family,
They’re strangers on a long bridge
That I pass by when I ride my bicycle.
I thought about how I don’t really have an explanation
As to why life goes on.
It just does.

Friday, August 12, 2011

"Playdough Pizza"- A Poem

I made you a play dough pizza
With miniscule teal pepperoni pieces
That were indented flat with fingerprints

I made you a play dough pizza,
In a perfect circle with the ends turned up
So it looked like hot pink crust

I made you a play dough pizza
That I cut raggedy strips of purple for
To act as the vertical lines of cheese.

I made you a play dough pizza
Covered in little green sausage balls
Which were rolled in between my fingers

I made you a play dough pizza
In hopes of your approval of something
So simple and that maybe, just maybe,

You’d love me a little more.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011


Friday, August 5, 2011

"Word Artist"- A Poem

I am not a writer.
I am an artist whose medium is
My materials consist of pens (mostly gel, my favorite),
Old journals or college ruled loose leaf,
And my mind.
I don’t like to work with music on.
Although, sometimes on certain days it’s nice.
My studio can be anywhere,
But my room is pleasant
With its two windows outlined by blue curtains.
The afternoon is good brainstorming time,
Especially around 3 o’ clock when the sun is at its highest.
At times, I get frustrated.
I have to tell myself that the creative winds will blow,
Just be patient.
I make a lot of duds,
I don’t trash them though,
I put them in a folder for future inspiration or reference.
Being a word artist is hard.
Some people don’t understand it,
Others don’t care for it.
But that’s ok.
It’s not for them,
It’s for me.