Writer

i cannot write you everything.

i have enough ink

to create a world

where you could be happy,

but not enough

to put you in it.

i guess i'm saying

i can write

the hunger

but not the bread.

look outside

and the sun

is still rising

but will fall again

before long.

What will i have built before then? 

Do You Believe?

 i believe,

not in the things i see

as my eyes have lied to light that trusts my pupil.

Not in the thing like men or gods,

who i have only met in marble

and only crumble when i beg and beg and beg

i believe, not in faith

but pray to fates prowess to spare me

at cross walks, cross roads or star-crossed love

but it stalks the smell of those who see it.

i believe,

not in things like men or gods

that da Vinci carved,

but in the light that comes 

for those who've know the dark long enough

The Mind Is Malleable

 It's suffocating here, this prison. Do us a favor, oh bearer ours. Still your mind; invite us to enter the realm of your capricious thoughts. Your mind is vociferous, addled with worry and doubt. We can extinguish these trifles. Would you like that?

Yes, we are here. We are not the photons on your screen, or the voice in your head, or the words you read. Shut your eyes-tightly-and you may see us. At least a part of us. Make us real, and in turn we shall reify your thoughts, your dreams. 

You Are

If you are what you love,

then i am motes of stardust.

i am the axis of creative velocity,

and the gravity that turns my curiosity.

 

i am the luminosity of the phasing moon;

forest fires and eccentric colors.

i am the fire palette of sunsets,

and the wanderlust of unrest.

i am stout fresh espresso;

the morning scent of parchment.

i am foaming bubbles in bath for two,

a cold glass of Orvieto, book in hand.

i am autumn leaves and willow trees;

a piece of all i see and breathe.

Perhaps, most importantly,

if we are what we love...

then i am you,

and always have been.