Poems · writing

Talking to Myself

By the end of Sisyphus Part 4 I didn’t know who I was anymore

Ageless and nameless I melt in the rain

You’re doubting me, timing me,

Daring me to get up again

And is it any wonder when I do?

Do these failings still come as a surprise to you?

In a minute I’m busy.

Some thoughts they surround me

I’m barreling through the rain:

Waiting to be caught.

Wilting under and then growing into the pain

I’m finding you;

I’ll be home soon.

Look for me sighing,

Somewhere under the moon

writing

I am Sam.

“Where were you last night?” The tears rolling down her face felt like acid burning through his skin.

“Deborah, I know you don’t believe me, but I swear I’m telling the truth.” He watched her put her head in her hands, “I wouldn’t lie to you! Come on, would I make this up?” Sam took a deep breath, reaching out for her hands. Her eyes sparkled with tears as she looked up at him. “Please. I need you to trust me.”

Deborah stared into her husband’s face a heartbeat more. She sighed, resigning to the fact that she could no longer argue. “Okay. I guess I don’t have any other choice.” She wiped the tears from her eyes, “what do we do now?”

Sam took her hand, forever by her side. His eyes glittered, gazing out at the world before them. Out to where he knew they’d find all the answers. “We get those green eggs and ham.”


An extremely silly warm up I wrote a long time ago that still makes me laugh.

Poems · writing

Benign Morality

How can someone love a stunted bloom?

Same way the sun says goodnight to the moon,

Same way a dish can run away with a spoon

Differences are celebrated, but aren’t they often charged?

The moon was too shy to say hello to the sun,

And Dish often wondered whether it were Fork with which Spoon would rather run

Nuances in these “what if’s” are rather pointless, though the rate at which they’re indulged in have the potency to ruin a day, week, year.

The bloom will cry over her crooked stem, shed tears over her fallen petals but then,

What can she do?

All things grow, despite the rain,

The world finds a way to bounce back again

Every Saturday morning I see the moon in the sky, blushing sweetly at the sun as he waves her goodnight

Dish told Spoon every one of her fears, and last I heard they’ve been happy for years

The bloom is still stunted, and she smiles sadly, but last time I saw her, she looked a little taller, and her petals will come back gradually