Poems · writing

Possibly Everything

Cleaning up corpses on the freeway,
Bloody spatter for miss November.
Moving on from Hollywood.
We’ve missed November, I’ll start when it’s over
And over it’s been in my mind again.

So it goes, lost in the wind.

Circling back, dropping the pin,
In a room too full to notice it’s ran out of gin.
Startled into recompense;
Turning it over til it all makes sense.
November was missed and I’ll start again,
Buckling under the rain.

So it goes, running thin.

You’ve grown too fat, you’ve gotten too short, the mind scolds the broken heart.
She’s working around it but nobody notices the note left out in the bin.

So it goes,
Missing November,
She found it hard to remember,
Her way back into life again.

So it goes.
Don’t stop me.

This one was kind of a mish-mash of ideas on my drive home late at night, hence the sort of jarringly different stanzas as the tone of it changed once I got home to work on it.

I tried adding little transitions between stanzas as a way to make it flow a little better. Not sure how well it worked but I liked it enough to publish it, so.

Thank you for reading!


Poems · writing

The Hazards

I want you to know that I’m trying to hate you.

To put every little thing you’ve done into a box and throw it into the river that made you realize you still loved me.

Let it sink to the bottom along with your near-death and dissolve into spent memories settling into the sediment.

Sway and move with the current.

Lost love,

Lost time,

William and Margaret,

A watery marriage bed,

Left to drown under the force of a Mother’s love.

But I pulled you and I called you here,

And now instead of saying goodnight, I’ve finally found the breath to say goodbye.

Poems · writing

Bitter in its Sweetness/Estranged

Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud; 

You left me and I’ve nowhere to go.

You carried my heart with you,

You carried it in your heart.

When the door closed and the sun set

You took my heart with you,

You carried it in your heart.

You told me I was whatever a moon has always meant,

And whatever a sun will always sing is you.

You carry my heart with you,

You carry it in your heart.

And I wish you would bring it back.

Poems · writing

An In N Out Dreary

In memory you are lost

As I second guess the cost

Of sickness spreading faster

Unmitigated disaster

Dwelling on those winter days

Brand new love a dizzy haze

Walking far into the night

Knowing we were quite the sight

In the timepiece of my heart

Hoping something new will start

Waiting til the stars align

For you again to be mine

Poems · writing


Sometimes I convince myself that my teeth could bite through metal

That the razor edges would do nothing to the soft parts of my mouth

That I wouldn’t bleed

Sometimes I think that I could crush glass between my fingers

That the glazed sand would find no purchase on my soft tissue

That I wouldn’t tear

Sometimes I imagine that if you were here I would be able to stand it

That the sound of your voice would be nothing but a residual melody in my mind. Your face an inkblot.

That I wouldn’t crumble.

But I know, I know, I know.

The moments tick by and I know.

I bleed, I tear, I crumble.

I am no match for the dreams that play in my head


Word Count Exceeded

I think sometimes we need a break.

I get lost in the chatter and sometimes don’t realize how much I’m affected by it all. I change my voice, speech patterns, my bias, all based on who I surround myself with but even more so based on what I’m consuming.

I’ve been thinking about cutting media out for awhile, (social and otherwise), but then I worry about how much I’ll “miss out” on. Though, is missing that funny Tweet really going to be that detrimental? Will endlessly scrolling through TikToks and Instagram memes better my life if I keep them as a priority like I have for years? I don’t think so.

“Everything in moderation”, that’s what people like to say, and I don’t disagree, but it’s difficult to kick something that feels like it’s constantly rewarding you. I rack up likes on Twitter because of something funny I said, people like the picture I posted on Instagram because the caption was silly or the picture was cute.

I want to be funny. I want to be liked, and above all I want to be valued. Why put effort into something that takes actual time out of my day like writing a short story, a poem, an article, when a self deprecating Tweet about my depression will do just as well to satisfy that itch? Dopamine is a convincing drug.

And people have short attention spans when it comes to content on their screens, I get that. It’s easier to hit “like” on something than to click through to a link and read actual paragraphs of something you may not end up having any interest in at all. On the creator’s end that’s difficult to accept. It’s disappointing. It’s easier to give in and just scroll for hours instead of sitting down and cranking out that first draft, that sketchbook doodle, that chord progression, whatever.

And then in order to be seen in a significant way you need to have a following. But how do you get a following? How do you self promote without burning people out? Is it all really just sheer luck? I have no clue, but it has to be better to put yourself out there rather than not.

So go do it! Write an outline for that short story, sketch your DnD character, pick up an instrument, take a picture of the sun! Whatever! Or don’t, I’m not your mom.

But I think you should.


Goodnight, not Goodbye

To remember:

He said I’m his best friend. And wonderful. And he loves me so much. That he doesn’t love me any less and he misses me. He said he always wants to talk to me and he always wants to hang out with me. He said I’m a huge part of who he’s become. He said that I’m beautiful inside and out. He liked my awful shaggy hair. He makes me feel beautiful no matter what. We were crying and held each other and he was still able to make me laugh, despite everything.

Poems · writing

Unintended Consequences

Push and pull

Out of control

Well let’s go since you seem to know

The way.

Between the click of the light and the start of the dream

When it ends,

Before it ends,

Will you keep me here in your mind

For awhile?

(Hidden away in the pocket of a daydream)

How much is too much to ask of you

I was hoping we could talk it through

Before you’re gone with the morning

Not sure I need to mention it but just to be safe: line five is from the Arcade Fire song No Cars Go, which is sort of what propelled this poem.