e.e. cummings – and feeling

“(and feeling:that if day

has to become night

this is a beautiful way)”


-e.e. cummings

we call her beautiful.

i once fashioned this innocent game of connect the dots- a silly picture of my life and the way it would be. somehow, plans turned forgotten and every unplan decided to show up and make home within my life. the only flaw within my portrait stemmed from a simple misunderstanding and common misuse of one word followed by another, my life. attaching life to mine was something i never considered or questioned, but in the hardest of ways i have learned life is everything but something to call my own. we cannot plan our births and through unexplainable experience, the death i planned or suddenly decided on did not occur. accepting the idea surrounding my lack of control is still a struggle.

this is hard


and quite frankly, this fucking sucks.

but every breath we are undeservingly given will be one i try not to take for granted.

in the most beautiful of all ways, i almost missed the simple glory of her wings. somewhere, i was given breath enough to finally see. for this, nothing could replace my thankfulness.

the black velvet bow of time

i found within myself the crevices and reality

feeding swollen veins with unrequited heartache,

embracing the comfort held beneath the dull photographs [i call home]

ticking hands pounded violently between my saddened ears

branding each page of recollection with staggered syllables

tugging and prodding at the deception masked within your name


the memories became tangible and frail, i stood at a distance

visiting every instance of unpromise’s rapturous kiss

and watched as his hands united the black velvet bow

the crevices swallowed the loss of heartache’s scars

and plucked the crumbs of a poisoned lover’s foolish mess



i cannot bask beneath the rays of instances and photographs

for shadows mask the quiet wings of crevices and letting go

instead, i nestle in the arms of loneliness

finding forever in a day


“Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness, but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.” -Ernest Hemingway

insanities deceptions

i know the past lays just as bitter

as the mistakes of our insanity

driving ourselves into the very hell

to which we despicably cringe

and have somehow [despite the odds] escaped


the deception, etches deeper

as we let each false pretense

slowly consume every blessing

swaying us from the truth

into a reality of darkness


choices, we have all made them

some more heinous than the rest

still, though every blunder pollutes each hope

time and perseverance repair

and molds us into a firm, solid soul


suffering we have laid upon the ones we love

is easy to escape through sorcery

and perfectly perfected cocktails of death,

but either path leaves us with the same results,

a dreadful past and a grueling road ahead


the only process that heals

tortuously burns us as we stumble through the fire,

melting away every ounce of dross

only to refines us as pure as gold

malleable, but no longer dosed with impurity



Insanity is doing the same thing, over and over again, but expecting different results.”

-Albert Einstein

but, the alternative is loneliness

RECKLESS, i know

to let you doctor the very heart

that sustains each breath

which gives and takes

the simple life i have been dealt


but no more is the risk

than that of a simple flight

of the bird that soars

beyond the safety of his flock

into a tactless journey


aware that a swift breeze

can cause him to plummet

into the very abyss

that framed his life

restricting every chance at happiness


captured in the freedom of knowing

unlike the stinging taste of the unknown

to which can never be satisfied

a life pressed with questions

only attained through safety


settling for second best

living the very life that

leaves you gasping for air

as you awake from a nightmare, choking

though that nightmare is your reality


so i, willingly place my heart

into your flawed supple, palpable hands

and take a chance on finding the simple treasure

that will sustain our lives

beyond human comprehension


a love so attainable

even the grave could not undo

an instance

of anything, to which nothing

can compare

love, so resilient

somewhere, i know you hear me

laden with useless thoughts

that have led you only to believe

of that which was otherwise the truth


swollen, drenched in pearls of clouded judgment

have you not, yet, separated black with white

laced with gingered satin between syllables

vexed with your head and heart


uncertain as to which way the wind will blow

instead of plucking the very soul from within you

you rapture beneath those who delight in your laugh

contending with every breath that gives life


can you not see beyond the grassy hills

into the rich meadows where you once danced

[twirled] when time was irrelevant, insignificant

where, a singular moment, two hearts were woven into one


we have somehow collided so gracefully

glimpses of sunlight burn through your hardened pain

and melt away each touch of fear that bound you from freedom

leaving you whole, tangible


as the vine buds from one season to the next

and as the universe trims each lifeless branch

each loss will soon be forgotten

mending every torn thread, limp and undone


compelling your eyes to finally see

what your heart has whispered to you [softly]

embracing each young seed, that roots

deep within your soul, rising to a mighty tree



(love you’re fighting a lonely battle you have pursued

through distortions of the past, which can never be

sorted through. pushing away each diamond, though flawed,

projects a perfect prism, of which none other is the same.

stand beside me. we can laugh beneath the moon, and bask

in its glorious halo; falling further into untouchable love.)

i’ve fallen short [again]

must i fall, how many times

to learn [finally]

how to walk straight

safety is what You have given me

i, nothing in return

tread lightly so you wouldn’t hear me

you knew – though – before i left

that soon id return

your forgiving, loving, merciful arms

so delicately hold my entire being

to which this life, no longer mine

i’ve given back to you


Lord, You are more than enough for me.

i chased the river – but it won’t chase me


this heart i placed in your hand

how the lilac stings when it grazes my skin


chasing the river that keeps on running

if i, pursue to find it

why should a river find me


-have any interest unless i dare to step in-


vibrations worth more than love

believe, heart says first

mind, knows you put me last


rushing river – unpredictable

this, i understand


but just as the lily is washed down stream

so i count the days till im gone


your rivers too noisy to see beyond the depths

where i lie in wait, for you to finally see

if you dive beneath the rushing waters

there, you’ll find me


holding my breath


[this hurts]