Drink in the stage lights.
The mic is turned up loud.
Feel the beat of the drum.
Hear the noise of the crowd.

The words land like punches.
I feel their weight in tons.
They contain heavy truths
beneath the jokes and the puns.

There’s a feeling of flying
before it all crashes down,
but we’re not afraid of dying,
only losing our crown.

So if you’re listening,
throw your hands in the sky.
Kindle a little flame
when the notes become dry.


She’s the pin to my balloon.
She’s the fatal butcher’s knife.
Dicing up my swooning heart,
she displays what’s left on ice.

She doesn’t give a thought.
She doesn’t really care.
The timing’s always wrong.
She has to wash her hair.

Consider this your warning.
Don’t fall in love with her.
She’ll take the life she wants,
then depart without a stir.

Let me make myself more clear.
She’ll surely string your brain along.
Then she’ll feign pure innocence,
like what she’s doing just isn’t wrong.

One would think she’d tire
of ripping happiness to shreds.
But she’s a praying mantis.
She won’t stop until I’m dead.


Nothing helps me realize what I truly believe
more than being separated from where my heart belongs.

Navigating through the filth the world has deemed normal,
I find I just can’t abandon what I learned in my youth.

Not because it’s been engrained into my every fiber
(though I will admit it has),

but because its relevance is apparent
with each breath God bestows upon my undeserving flesh.


Take hold of those shining stars.
Chase after your many dreams.
Don’t let gravity keep you down.
Rip out of safe and cozy seams.


The words are poised on the tip of my tongue,
but fear is keeping me from setting them free.
I’m terrified my feelings will cause you to run,
and what will happen if our hearts disagree.

Grabbing Coffee

Pair of steaming mugs
sit cooling on corner table.
Awkward first dates.


My heart is the disk
you used to fling to your dog in childhood.
It’s still between his teeth.

My heart is the stone
you threw across the ocean.
It’s lost in the waves.

My heart is the paper airplane
you set to flight on that sunny day in June.
It’s soaring with a purpose.

My heart is the boomerang
you sold in a yard sale years ago.
It’s finding its way back to you.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 907 other followers