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.”


Party Poetry, Poetry, Societal Poetry, The World is Beautiful

I feel like Harry Potter in his first potions class,

If the cauldrons were filled with Henny and Dr. Pepper.


The Flip flipped my shit,

Whip this lick to stiff whicks,

Chicks’ thicc,

Mick’s quick,

Shift lift and thrift spliffs

“Hey look it’s Fitz”


Hundreds of honeys and buddies like these whack catacombs,

Dulces and sweeties and rich baritones

In the zone, fusion dancing, prancing

It’s tone confusion glancing like France in

April, that’s my staple Jasmine Tea free,

Suckling maple from Yasmin’s knee, whee,

Hold it there the gun’s a BB,

Huns in a three-piece

Trying for world peace

Dying in whirled fleece.

Cashin’s the mission

That moon juice I’m missin

The dank’s got me flitting

Like dark politicians,

The mark of the Kishin,

Those ladies are kissing

The Fitzy is fitting

You know what you’re missing.


(Props and love to the buddies at the Flip who host and play such dank events. They’re magic. Some of this poetry is fictious, some of it isn’t! Regardless, it was a tight night.)


Internal Poetry, Poetry, The World is Beautiful

I woke up today with tears hanging from my eyelids,

Shifting from dream dimensions,

Waiting for reality’s physics to freefall.

The morning ceremony turns a deeper hue,

As Xenia Rubinos penetrates the aesthetic corners of my mind

And shows me what true beauty is.

The tears have situated to this atmosphere again,
so they fall without question.

What I would do to translate these bulbous flower emotions

Into concert instrumentation.


The joy of creation is more than I can handle.

With a single note, my soul’s towering canopy fortresses are disarmed,

Exposed nucleus at the center of a swirling petal dance universe.


Fatherhood has been a part of me since I first gave birth to my Anniversary.

Pride has been long and distant, sheathed underneath my paternal motor which

Sows creative oats with insatiable hunger for more.

That voice too, becomes hushed by Xenia.

Nothing but blissful tears remain, overwhelming me in the only love I could ever hope to live for.

A creator’s love.


I can feel the light of my unborn child’s eyes seeing my future soul.

The very thought of the grand collaboration,

Masterpiece of my life looking back at me the way I wished poetry could-

The thought alone comes closeto convincing my synapses and fibers

To entirely fall apart.

Creation is one of the most sacred duties a human can have.

Creationism, a term giving pervert life to the closed darkness of blind souls

Refusing to leave their cave of parables-

The term needs to be redefined to justify such a beautiful root verb.


Every loose creation is beautiful and capable of becoming a miracle.

Every amalgamate hopes to open its eyes to their parent’s love.

We owe such soul-singing love to every thought, writing, being

That we put onto this earth.

The moment a creation believes it is ugly is the moment it dies,

And my heart simply can’t take the kind of ignorance that convinces that thought.