She showed me a video of a deranged artist,

She asked me if that was a fate I wanted to meet,

I politely declined,

We were unsure if he was losing his soul or losing his mind,

The anxiety of imperfection taxed his fragile fingers and he shook in fear,

I told her of my mercurial methods of avoidance and repeated to ensure my message rung clear.


His floor teemed with splattered canvases thrown in his fits,

The would chop his palette in attempt to mix his expectations with truth,

The board would bleed red like a severed tooth…

From the head,

He would glare and expect,

He would stand from his office chair to reflect,

On his mistakes,

He would grip the edge of his office table to stop his hand from shak-


He would bring, he would offer new color to the mix,

and repeat.
She told me that that kingdom had no king,

That I must unite my thoughts to concentrate them into a bullet to fire into the standing wall of my indecision,

Which drove my implacable thrust for meaningless variety,

Lest I’ll find my lesser self smashing colors into one another.


I guess she was talking about focus married with dedication in a manner impervious to external influences,

Such as those heinous devices garbed in petite structures,

Those snakes waiting to snap,

A defense against the dangerous few…

…unfortunately those sick folk captured my interest in which I demonstrated in blue and red,

Which I mixed with my expectations for their betterment,


Despite my whole heart,

They remained in holes.


Maybe my expectations are actually yellow,

Or wait no probably orange,

Or maybe white…

Yeah white.



4 Days

Your suspension of belief,

Bring it,

I need no interference,

I can’t think,

With the gods staring down my back-

As I chisel a simple motif,

Into the dim lit-

Corridor who’s face shall shrink,

Once the entire setting goes black.

We need to walk again

Without ridicule,

Into the chest of your devil,

To subdue the pending threat-

You speak highly of.

I promise we are safe,

He cannot hear you here for he cannot reflect within himself,

We are his conscious now,

Let us steer the beast.


His demise, is your demise,

And your demise, is my demise,

So be light with your touch and pray we do not become the monster you hate.

Day 1.

I can hear his victim’s cries,

I can see the smirk, in the mirror, to which he sports,

Like a new do of sorts,

Staring his crush in her eyes,

He is not clean.

Day 2.

We fear to feed,

On his innards,

For we will truly be one,

We cannot munch on something he needs,

For all of true progress would be for none,

We must starve.

Day 3.

He hears us,

His breath hath changed,

She prays to gods,

I forget their names,

He is heartbreak,

And he is untamed,

He is unclean,

He is unashamed,

He is always new,

And never the same,

He is heartbreak,

I believe I’ve found his name.

Final Day.

His halls are black,

I cannot see, we cannot see,

The soul light lacks,

I cannot recognize myself you see, not at all in fact,

We are weak and broken, he is all intact,

She became him,

I became me,

…We cannot go back,

He stands tall and spits me out,

They become one,

He begins to sprout-

A new head from her scorn,

A new monster newborn,


I guess I’ve seemed to escape…

From what we all can relate.



Petty Crime

She opens up like a gun shot wound anytime she’s the one to blame,

She prattles like a convict trying to escape her truth,

Anything less than our belief will cause her to shoot,

Clips of doubt in our minds to have us question what’s true.

She’s a dauntless fugitive unaware of her crime,

Three years on death row with absolutely no clue.

She never stopped to ask,

She only speaks to counter what ever reality passed,

She wants to be the contradiction to the system,

She wants to be the criminal til grave.


I have inadvertently given quiet refuge to the forbidden desires of a pure soul,

I have catalyzed the corruption by caution-less acrobats,

With electric hands and a caring heart-

She now resembles both the main antagonist and protagonist of my fairy tale-

I tell to myself every night before I rest to ensure sleep,

I am starting to notice that the rotting could run deep-

Into her mentality,

And deeper into her personality,

Which would neutralize those electric hands and numb that caring heart,

Her disagreeable complex would rebuke her individuality and spoil rotten her image,

She would be unknowingly a herald of normalcy,

A feverous heretic to my cause,

I would lose her to the melting pot of low youth living he high life in the middle of insecurity and ignorance.


I would close my doors to her black touch and reset the nature of my shelter.


New Age

While this society was a direct opposite of a younger society that stood from its strength not shook from it’s fragility and indecision, there are proponents that argue that this generation is the second beginning of creation. Information is readily assessable via various handheld devices, curiosity is aplenty and the youth find intrigue with the aberrant course. I believe it is on this path that creation is found and revolutionary phenomena is discovered along the unscathed roads of nascent enlightenment. I believe the complexity of this pursuit almost always ensues peril and is unbecoming of the frail seekers searching for only recognition with discovery. I believe passion is married with any true monumental discovery and one’s desire to aid others by advancing the world. We fail in social interactions and falter under the pressure of frivolous discourse but capitalize on the access that we’ve been blessed with. A question no longer lingers for decades, ignorance no longer has refuge, and finally the origin of facts can be pronounced on any basis of any honorable argument. What a time to be alive.

Dream 2

Smoke filled the area of my room,
She appeared in white garbs,
She fell sickly into my arms biting her tongue on the collapse,
She bulged her eyes with heavy tears that weighed down my chest,
I stared into her brown eyes and caught the storm in soul,
I reached inside her ribs to grab the pain from her breast and held remarkably tight,
My knee kept behind her head,
I took my hands from her pain and wrapped my arms her,
And held softly,
Her brown skin combusted into tan dust,
I scooped in my palms trying to capture her remains,
Instantly my life changed,
Instantly my fight changed,
Changed from fighting for her into fighting to stay sane,
Her storm moved to me,
My bones rained the water of her memories that remain plastered on my forehead and constantly sitting on my brain.
I have lost her again.

Dream 2.

Our Sanctuary

As the houses burn around us, we try to save our own. We build defenses of formidable measure to withstand the most perilous of onslaughts. We fortify our roofs with unbreakable ethics and stay true to our shelter. We stay away from our windows because they show us what we must do without; the pain and misery outside those doors deal great damage to our exposed exteriors. We craft our success to persevere through the fact of eventual failure.

We’ve pointed out spades of errors in the integrity of our fellowmen’s houses…we pledge not to make those same mistakes. I have one other, one other person in this bout of foul play, I stare my darling in her eyes as she set flames to our drapes boding slow death to our sanctuary, she was freezing and needed a heat my body could not provide. The chandeliers fall to the ground and burst into glass cutting chunks of fresh meet from my sensitive legs. I stare my darling in her eyes, I stare my darling in her eyes, I stare my darling…in her eyes as she promises forever…confounding reason with flames. I beg my beloved, who which has the power to remove, these flames from our haven, to not mimic the shortcomings of her friends, I beg my beloved to make eternal peace with her heart and not temporary splendors with her actions. I beg my beloved to think about her honor and truth, for these virtues can rebuild our home. I fear the weight of a vexing plight and allure of a false tomorrow may fill her lungs with that cinnamon smoke, and that is when…I will lose her.