"What an odd man..."
StrangerHey there, stranger.
You're not really a stranger, I guess.
Not completely, anyways.
We've spoken, and shared quick smiles,
Almost silent 'hello's.
I've passed you in the hallway before
And I always tend to steal a glance.
You were always surrounded by so many people.
How would you act if it was just you?
You seem nice.
I think we would be good friends.
Maybe we would be the kind of friends
Who are really close, but promise it's platonic.
The kind of friends who would run around the neighborhood at night
And dance around in the freezing rain.
Who would run through sprinklers in the summertime
Despite being fully clothed.
The kind who would make ice cream sundaes
And pop a little whip cream on each other's noses.
One day, sometime in the future,
If we take certain steps,
I think I could fall in love with you.
I could love you and your laugh.
The way that you trip over your toes if you walk too fast.
Maybe we'd get married.
Maybe we'd grow old together,
Hold hands while sitti
BraveMaybe Bravery is more than I thought.
Perhaps it's more than
Killing the villain
And getting the girl?
Could it be more than
Shooting a gun
And hitting the target?
What if it's more than
Saving a life
That was almost wasted?
I think Bravery is more than that.
Being the sidekick
And protecting the hero?
Could it be
Shooting the ground
Instead of the unlucky bystander?
What if it's
Saving a life
And giving up yours?
Bravery can be small
Bravery can be large
And maybe Bravery
Is found in places
We'd never think to look.
Stunning, the message
Outrageous to the knowing
Superb, the technique
Hilarious to the informed
Master of his Art
ma merei think my mother thinks i'm blind,
that i see only my own faults
and forget the fractures in her composure,
the fissures in her failing heart
that keep her awake at night.
i fear she thinks i do not see the strength in her scars.
i think my mother thinks i'm deaf,
that i cannot hear her silent sadness;
it has always echoed
in the halls of this family home.
maybe she thinks i do not hear the wisdom in her words.
i think my mother thinks i'm numb,
that i do not feel
the eternal love in every touch;
i know with absolute certainty
that no one
will ever love me
like my mother does.
every hug is a blessing that brings me home.
but maybe, my mother has it twisted.
i'd do anything for her to see the beauty in being faulted,
to know she hears me when i say 'i love you',
and be assured she feels my heart when i hug her back.
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
waters worry the pristine
sand, washing blank paper
into a bevy of tidepools.
The hush of the surge whispers
its song into conch shells;
the tinge of brine mingles
with coconut milk and dried
seaweed clumping the beach.
Hermit crabs dot the strand
like constellations, waiting
for soothsayers to read meaning
into their trails before the waves
wash them away like comets.
TakenIt was just a strategic readjustment.
It was just a necessary tactical move.
It was just your finger moving half an inch left
and curling slightly.
It was just the centimeter or two of difference
between the moment that just was,
and the one that is,
but you reached for my hand
and you took my heart.
I think of youAs suns set afar and mountains flame
And eagles, turning, turn to fire
Ash cold, alone I lie
And think of you.
powerless, and reaching."He's the kind of person
who tells me to 'cheer up'
when I'm depressed,"
he says, scoffing,
and I shake my head
"What a useless comment."
He chuckles, agrees,
but I keep thinking about
about all the "cheer up"s
and "just be happy"s
he's heard in his life.
I want to say "cheer up,"
I want my words to magically
cure him, heal him,
crush his depression
in a way that no pills ever could,
but I know it doesn't work like that.
Happiness is not an item
to be obtained with quarters
it is not a country to travel to
in airplanes and sailboats.
Happiness is a change in the wind,
a flicker from east to west
that cannot be upheld permanently.
For him, it is a road
blocked by people who roll their eyes
and tell him to get over himself.
When I wrap my arms around him,
he laughs again,
sinks into my body.
I think about hollow rooms,
sound echoing off the walls.
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,
that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead.
It isn’t true.
It’s said the stench of hell infects the earth
and healths of heated blood are downed.
But Hamlet lied.
The dead know nothing, the living less.
There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;
souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.