Long ago, I hated doing this.

It took me a solid 4 years to get comfortable sharing my poetry. Super dumb period of my life. Sharing my poems has given me so much more joy than it has fear. Enjoy the joy in your lives, y'all there's only a wee bit of it.

Pretty much none of these poems are about joy. Enjoy them anyway! 

Weathered Souls, Round About Midnight

Because these weathered souls, round about midnightFight like hell and can’t seem to swallow that prideThey know the path all too well
Flashing blood stained grins and flammable eyesBeen there and back two times this week
Came out on top but still following reluctant feet

When The Road Runs Out

Our hearts they walk miles to be near each other
Through phone lines and airwaves, they run to one another
so busy chasing and running to and fro
I wonder if they’ll know which way to go
When the road runs out
And left is a but window
In front of which
they’re meant to hold hands
And look out

The Perfect Pour

He always did have the perfect pour
She considered the precise angle of the glass
And the way his movements were measured, yet effortless
His wrists had long since memorized the exact motions required to pour a glass of beer with just the right amount of foamShe never commented on this
She thought it might have bothered him that she didn’t
He had a bit of an ego
And liked to be reminded he was good at things
Funnily enough, if asked, he couldn’t tell you one single thing he, himself genuinely liked about himselfShe remembered how frustrating this impressively potent pairing of selfish self promotion and crippling insecurity had been
She also recalled the constant guilt
The thundering boom his voice could muster
The scowl he donned most nights
The loss of oxygen
The countless purchases of Covergirl medium blend, there just never seemed to be enough to cover them all
She remembered the fear in her own eyes, every time she stared down her reflection.Taking the perfectly proportioned glass from him, her fingertips brushed against his sandpaper knuckles
Even after all this time, a jolt rushed through her body
He must have noticed, as that same hesitant but certain smile slowly crept across his lipsHer eyes fluttered, looking away
She almost spoke,
but instead brought the glass to her lips
And closed her eyes tight.

Untitled

The paint is peeling,
The front door has a dent
Bullet holes in the front window
There are uneven floors
The roof is leaky
Electrical is shotty at best
There’s a root clogging the drain,
The attic is occupied by squirrels,
and whatever other creatures can burrow themselves into the holes
The floors never were finished
The bathroom walls are sanded, and dry walled, but remain bare
Waiting in vain for paint
Like once proud trees,
Now withered by the touch of winter’s icy kiss
The bones of this house shiver
Yet here it stands
The mailbox still receives
And the numbers on the door haven’t ever changed
But there’s a school nearby
And I hear they’re building a park down the street
It seems insane,
But when the floors creak,
I can hear your name.