Dream No. 1

dreams, Internal Poetry, love, Peace, Uncategorized

I can be a nice blue sky,

Waking from a dream in twilight.

The park is quiet, sullen like an old war story

And I’m  part of many- lovers, tacticians, fighters, musicians

They’re all coming to the crown in the green grass, this floating tablet

The shakes the earth upon its flight.

My robes are threadbare, but I am garbed in seven gorgeous notes.

The wind scatters myself from the swaying grasses,

All the way up the earthen spiral to our crown.

How did I grow to love you so?

I suppose it’ll only answered in the logic of a dream.

But those seven notes speak it louder than my subconscious ever could.

It’s an unconscious spell,

A lovely incantation on the eighth hour.

“I can be a nice, blue sky.”

Write for the words.

Meditate for each in and out.

Run, cause you’re out of time.

Fly, to flee your feelings.

Pray cause it’s lent.

Be good, or you’ll find trouble.


It baffles me how easy it is to forget the real reasons we live.

What’s your reason for doing what you are right now?

I’m unplugged, the light’s been off and I’ve forgotten where the switch is.

I’ve turned friends into false idols to dominate my time,

Self-constructed monsters run amok through my headspace,

Cause the mice will play when the joy is away.

But all it takes is a simple flick up, when you know where to touch.

And channels of friends, love, direction and reasons come flooding into view,

And you sit dumbfounded to see it never left in the first place.

Disconnection is a hell of a drug. So it goes, and flows,

and flows,

Washing every trash statue erected in your insecurity away like a Listerine tsunami.

Clean enough for the government to redirect it towards those Florida gated communities.

Death never smelled so shiny.

Rebirth, easy as a smile with the light coming from inside.

Mid blessing, a piece of birdshit plopped inches away from Osbourne and my hand.

The path of righteousness put me just outside the radius enough to see I was in that blessing.

Acne turns to cartography when the third eye opens on a fresh zit.

Cosmetic, or cosmic?

We can’t tell for ourselves, but only hope.

Hope is all we could ever do.

Hope is all we could ever need.

Empowerment, love, Peace, Poetry, The World is Beautiful

Helter Skelter:

Internal Poetry, love, Nature, Questions, The World is Beautiful

Love. That beer-battered heart in a cage we vilify.

Lefty crushes helter-skelter, bouncing through the willows,

Through pillow talk and talking us down,

I’ve traded my treats for the hilltop bungalow,

Coated in amber, bleeding mauve through the cracks

Of a broken glass sunset.

It’s time to be grateful,

Give heed to the deeds of the lovers above us,

The hour is less than a full night’s sleep away.

The power in my chest is a dull plight’s steep decay.

The dour sung frets come full sky scenes to play.

Like yesterday,

I fummeled with redness

And pummeled my headrest,

So the only sleep night’s fair

Is a sleep’s nightmare.

My antagonists are into it,

They’re masochists, they go away.

The field is petals

Of rose and gunmetal,

The incubus Fahrenheit

Has me in its iron sight

It’s there and trite, they’re not welcome here today.

I’ve Been There Before

Joylessness, love, Peace, Poetry, Problems, The World is Beautiful

I can see it right in front of me.

The look on two people’s faces, closely conjoined

One shows the other something they love,

You can tell it in the wrinkles of their smile and the high in their eyes.

The other person- disjointed. Façades of pleasure coat themselves in a silicone mask

To feign the feelings the other has, naturally coursing through them.

I’m sorry you’re forced to receive the plastic. You deserve organic joy from the things that shake you.

I can see the annoyance on your face mirroring their smirk,

Your time is limited and it’s a feeling I know all too well.

We’ve descended into the desert- lent has begun for this observer, and with it the promise of

and with it the promise of

One hell of a trial.

And yet, there is goodness no farther away than out the corner of my eye.

If I keep that sense of encompassing love around me,

I’ll be able to glow right through the spooks.

Today is a day to avoid cemeteries,

But how do we abstain from the mausoleums in others’ hearts?

How do we find peace in our subconscious when our dreams are constantly attacked?

Surgeons, domestic terrorists, and insect amalgamates are throwing everything they can

To disrupt our pace and our peace.

As I write on top of this monolith,

My fingers feel the ease of flow and the nimbleness

Of a well-warmed guitar.

Even if my heart is unprepared,

Even if my mind is clouded,

Even if my voice is murmurs and grape juice,

My fingers flow, and express their love.

This is the scape I know the best,

So I’ll just let my fingers go, and be free and love how they wish.


Empowerment, Family, Internal Poetry, love, Poetry

When I look in the crystalline shards of a morning’s reflection,

I’m seeing more and more of the reflection you’ve given me.

Coming to peace with the split in my personality,

I notice and love more and more of the gifts you’ve sent to me,

Through nature and nurture.

The frustration from failure and dropped expectations

Have paved the way over the years to peace in my routine.

Where the red side of my birthrites languished in love threatening stagnancy,

The corners of blue in my pockets and corneas drove me like a motor onwards.

I’m sure you know the anatomy of a cornea far better than I (eye) at this point,

But I’m sure somewhere between our methods of extracting,

We can both find happiness underneath the layers of somebody’s gaze.

Our sights are singular,

Purpose intermingling with dogma,

How else could you graduate top of your class, millimeters from catastrophe?

It’s a dogged determination I’ve learned from you,

That’s fed the hues of my leftmost blue

That spells a story birthday candles can’t do justice.

Often, I wonder what you felt like at the age I’m coming across now.

I wonder if the hope you had for next generation’s creation

Has brought pride to the meticulous upbringing of a future come true.

I wonder, at 20, if we struggle with similar strides,

Was it as hard to keep composure and poise?

You’ve paved the way for my success in ways only a wish for a better life can.

Some day, in a coming February 25th,

We’ll celebrate your life and your birth and your legacy of memories

With new aspirations manifested into your extended family.

There were times I feared we wouldn’t have those moments.

Roadside malice closed the doors for a moment,

I couldn’t form the feelings to put shape to that fear,

And I still don’t know how to now.

But that hurdle has miraculously passed.

You remain with us.

So here’s to another February 25th.

I know you’ve never been a man of gifts,

But I can’t help but glow at this fateful gift and sigil.

To many, many more Februaries

Where the second power of five adds another tick

To the celebrations given to Michael Pucci.

It was the first exponent I ever learned when my age was the first power,

When you opened the doors and made me believe in myself.

I love you.


Coldness Overtakes Duality

Internal Poetry, Joylessness, Poetry, Problems, Questions

I can hear the coldness in my eyes doing the speaking for me.

Usually takes so long for them to get in the conversation,

Red always stage dives right into the middle of matters.

But here I am, glowing shades of cerulean and indigo

Dot the highlights of the expectations I’ve left unmet.

I don’t know why, or where, or how,

But let’s just leave them.

Neglect is the icy blue fire that fuels my unamused acumen.

My hair drops shades of color,

Slime starts protruding from my pores,

And I sink.

And I write.

I’ve learned so well to cope and love in isolation.

Such an obnoxious extrovert and I’ve learned to love

The dark


Half-open eyes

Tickles in my left thumb,

“You’re not good enough”

Calculated response


I dance a sullen waltz across the floor,

Changing in triplet with lovers to be

Before motion sweeps me away from them.

I hope they all don’t think they’re not good enough.

But to be that kind of honest we’re afraid to get,

The kind that stings your eyes with painful contradictions to your wishes

I can’t be anywhere involved with someone whose company makes me feel empty.

But I’ll always love myself,

So I keep writing and forgetting,

Marking my memories in these sullen elegies,

So I don’t have to hold on.

That smell.

The cold air on the heaters pushing the cold from the shower

That wakes you up in the morning

That’s my Jasmine Tea, my blissful addiction.

The time’s coming for euphoria, for come-ups and for rebirth.

The tectonic plates of our faces will change again, the cascading waves at the top of our pores

Will ring opalescent in shifting beauty obscured by bright eyes.

This is where Shia just did it.

This is where Donovan sat and talked about an empty Baltimore.

This is where I became self-assured.

Even though the season’s in peak bitter,

Peppermint schnapps gales hit us with the same burn

And refuse us warm bellies,

The background is stark, white, and cold.

The dormant things lie in wait for the first kiss of spring’s promise

When the air soothes, not stings

When the daffodil harbingers make their brave venture

And colonize their space under the namesake of beauty.

A garden of eden appeared under closed eyes,

And all it took was a whiff of its potent nostalgia.

Amherst, Empowerment, love, Nature, Peace, Poetry, Uncategorized

The Answers Aren’t Mine

Questions, Societal Poetry

Have you ever felt the horror of losing a child in the supermarket?

Have you ever felt the despair of your creations burning before you?

What is the importance of an emergency banana to you?

Does running in a snowstorm sound like something you’d want?

What shoes would you wear?

How many gusts of subzero air would it take you to give up?

How many pages in a day is sufficient writing? How about meals?

Who loses their cool first you or your professor?

What would you do if you could start something up from the ground and call it yours?

Do you like to hear your voice in a silent room full of people?

How many meetings can you attend at once?

How many minutes of time to yourself is enough to survive?

How important, really, is food to you?

Is a hundred a big number?

Where do all the people you’ve promised your time go when they’ve realized you abandoned them?

Given the circumstances, is life still worth it?

How do you give the best dap to a buddy?

Have you ever felt afraid when a friend messages you?

How long do you think your patience string is?

How long until the next computer crash?

Where is the person who first told you to back up your data?

Do you miss them?

Do you love them?

Why are there so many questions in the first place?

Peace After Pain

Fear, Internal Poetry, Peace, Poetry

Scraped shins and chagrin always shared their names.

To feel pain and peace never made any sense

Cause I’d never ignored at the other’s expense.

But I knew what I stepped into the moment I did know,

The bubbles of intent actualized Pro Quid Quo.

The identity scaffolding I’ve built has been crushed under lump snow,

The ritual had been broken by millions of teeming snowflakes

And a fresh pocketful of sunshine when there’s no sun to spread.

I need to continue meditating, breathing, loving, and healing,

But the systems against them are so damn appealing.

Here I am, starry-eyed and unable to tell you what today is

(Other than A Hell of a Day)

I’ve got homework to do, further writing to be demonstrated,

I’ve gotta read like a motherfucker and keep my aspirations close.

Cause it IS the last day of the weekend,

It’s in order to propel my creator self towards the sky

And continue to fight the fight and realize the glow up.

My psyche’s taken a vacation from the rigid structure of ambitious perfection,

But the breaths I’ve taken in between sprints have been pretty damn sweet.

The longest streak my ski-shoes made today was 30 feet.

My soul sunk into a group of fine buddies like a down pillow permeated.

Today, I stopped the hypnotizing pull of a schedule

And unshackled the depths of my emotional self.

It tasted like the kind of unconditional happiness of my right mind’s eyes.

Warm and strong, burning soft with desire.

I let the precise and judgmental stay dormant today,

And gave into unmitigated self-love.

It whispers sweet nothings about breaking my rigid schedule

That I allow myself, pulsating in joy, to dip into like blood-warm water.

The tricking tips on the back of my shoulder and wrists

The world employs to enjoy mutual company

Have taken the form of water around me.

Fluid and loose, my energy flies like a

Sloven dog with wings learning to flap.

There’s no rush or objective, besides passing the time we have in bliss.

Tomorrow will be new, start with blue running shoes,

And I’ll fall into my habits soon

Like pre-emptive gratitude.

Life has pulsated in response, the moon’s waxing to capacity

And likewise, I feel my own body inundated with light and wonder

“Are there any things up there looking back at my shine?”

Amherst, Internal Poetry, love, Poetry