Archive for November, 2014


The blank spaces
sandwiched between rows of words
often tell a better story.

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Bullets at the Moon

Believing in a dream,
though it’s not the usual one.
Stuck inside a choice,
either words or a loaded gun.

Firing bullets at the moon,
but the night doesn’t prevail.
Peace is considered weak,
but violence is getting stale.

Backwards thinking keeps us in place,
assuring our impending demise.
Will love be found before it’s too late,
or will ignorance shut our eyes?

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Evening All Day

It’s been evening all day,
the sky bleak and foreboding,
with the only light leaking
from the clouds’ silver coating.

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Falling asleep to the sound of a clock,
there’s no escaping the passing of time.
Laying my head at the place where dreams dock,
I ponder how breathing can stop on a dime.

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Something Real

Is there a reason to remain?
We’ve dealt each other so much grief.
Our words are so mechanical.
They’re wounding our long-held belief.

Feeling passed away.
Every day has been the same.
Inhaling and exhaling
is causing me to go insane.

Bitterness has festered,
and for that I am to blame.
Avoiding confrontation,
throwing water on our flame.

Maybe we could still succeed.
Time and effort just might heal.
Through open-hearted honesty,
perhaps we can be something real.

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Drops of Water

Time is of the essence,
but I’m held down by your presence.
My sanity is crumbling
as I await your final sentence.

Your lips are moving fast,
yet the words come out so slow.
But single drops of water
gradually transform into a flow.

Soon I will be drowning,
and you’ll just watch me die.
Hand above the surface
until it’s swept up in the tide.

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Poor Little Honey Bee

Poor little honey bee
has an allergy to chives.
He ate a tiny morsel,
then broke out in hives.

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Kind of Heaven

Dimly lit streets
and chain-link fences.
Laying down beats,
no rose-colored lenses.

Writing in the dark.
This has been my calling.
Breathing is an art,
chest rising and falling.

Music grants me life,
warms me when I’m cold.
Gives me second sight,
calls to break the mold.

If there is a kind of heaven
waiting when we die,
turn the volume to eleven,
let music fill the sky.

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This is the last time I’ll think about her,
moving on from the habit of feeling unsure.

She took so much from who I wanted to be,
but I can’t let that stop me from becoming free.

Severing ties hurts, but that’s how it goes sometimes.
I can’t always conceal my pain behind fragile, wobbly rhymes.

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The lingering scent of tobacco and perfume
rests upon the sweater you left behind that night,
and I wish you’d come back to retrieve it,
but weeks have already passed since then,
so I suppose I shouldn’t keep my hopes up like this.

Still, the thought of you knocking on my door
fills me with such a childish kind of joy
that I can’t help but be swept up in the tide
of your possible company once again,
you, the remarkable sun, and I, the blade of grass.

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