Truly Alone


Have you ever felt so alone that you stopped existing
for a moment, lost in the momentousness of it all?
Not lonely, pining for a love lost or a chance missed
like a hungry wolf slinking from shadow to shadow,
but like a lost traveler stumbling upon nirvana
in the form of a pool of water in a barren desert.
Alone with nothing but the wind for company
and sweet thoughts of silence for stimulation.
There is a peace in the lack, in the dark beyond
where formless fears reside as if waiting,
baiting the traveler with the promise of serenity.
Sometimes the relevation must be sacrificed
for the sake of sanity and clarity must be kept.
But sometimes when you are alone in the dark
you surrender past your fears and open your eyes
and drink deep from the fountain bubbling,
beckoning for you to come closer and be free.
The water, cold and bracing is erasing the past,
robbing you of your misery and leaving new skin
in the places that your scars once called home.
You are not a wolf here, or a dragon, or a sheep-
you are a traveler, alone in the desert, bathing.
You know that eventually you will have to wake,
pick up your dirty baggage and slog forward to the
future, but for a moment, you are alone and alive.
Have you ever felt so alone that you stopped existing

For A Lost Generation


Rage! Rage against the silent steel gleam

of this machine, this system systematically destroying us.

We are young and virile and alive,

the machine is cold, and calloused and couldn’t care less.

It’s a trap triggered by tension wire pulled taut

against our necks as we struggle to breath, we need air

but the machine has choked oxygen into submission

and drowned the seven seas in dross so we swim in sludge.

Rage, against the audible drone of the silent missiles

that don’t miss, each picture perfect pinpoint strike punctures

and lives once whole are torn apart each day.

Speak only when spoken to and you will never be spoken to

because your words are fire and the machine is an ice cold killer.

So speak young warrior, rage, let you words fall like water.

Summon Poseidon, seize his trident to defeat this leviathan

We are not numbers on a page, written in black and white

nor are we the ignorant arrogance of the fathers before us.

We are a whole people. Men and women mighty in deed.

We rage, not fruitlessly but relentlessly against the night.

We will not go gently into the night, but grab darkness by the throat

crush his power and blind him with our brilliance.

We walk soft as ashes but our hearts are aflame. Rage!

Rebirth (repost)


We rage—struggle like caterpillars,

seemingly in vain, apparently aimless

but even in the mundane mess made

beauty spills out, iridescent brilliance

burning with desire to go higher,

our wings kissing the sky with color

as we dance wildly through the wind

and glory in the careful chaos of a world

that billows chance and sweeps us up,

far beyond the limits of the finite

grasp of our inherent possibilities

until we reach for the sun itself.

But like Icarus the fool we blaze bright,

the sun’s kind caress killing us softly

and we silently fall in showers of ash,

blanketing the verdant green below

with a covering of grey failure

and consuming life in somber depression.

Slowly the wind dances through us,

swirling our eager, restless thoughts

till when we are ready we rise, caterpillar

again struggling at bottom of the totem

but now more dedicated to the ascent.

Ripping our cocoon to shreds

we blaze forth, even more beautiful,

into the brave new world, no longer afraid

for we are butterfly no more

but a phoenix in flight, untethered

and beyond the fear of death.

Beyond even the fear of failure itself. 



Surrender suppressed rage and listen to my words,

Let the ashes flare to light and feed from my flame.

I speak for a generation deemed unfit to rise and conquer

but if you listen close you can hear the swell of the ocean,

our voices rising in unison, unique in presentation but relentless

the waves smashing the stubborn cliff faces of ignorance.

Those are our voices saying “We Have Had Enough!”

We have exhausted the excuses and we are tired of the lies,

“Lazy. Entitled. Stupid. No Work Ethic. Back in the good old days…”

Victims of assault from the constant verbal barrage,

we are prisoners to perceptions, we are called pathetic.

It’s hard to deny when some wear the our shame with pride

but they are not the representation of this generation.

Listen to my words as I speak for those who like me

are refusing to continue to sleeping in complacency and desire

to see a world filled with light, no more walking in the dark

We are coming and we are angry, burning bright within.

This world is ours to hold and we will seize it with our hands,

you call us lazy but we will work until we bleed,

satisfy those you starved who now need to feed.

You call us entitled though we are shackled with student debt

but we will bear it on our broad backs like warrior, leaders.

Stupid? We are the future! It is not our fault you cannot understand.

Listen. But words are only words until they come to life.

So listen, hear our voices. Teach us. Remember us.

We are your children. We are the future. Listen.

Old Poem Updated, Still Rough


Am I pathetic or apathetic?

Or is it the other way round, am I pathetic in my apathy, do I need therapy?

In my mind ideas blossom like new suns in new universes,

wild, bright, hot, brilliant and hard to capture in these verses

only to be snuffed out like candles by the darkness.

The darkness within that is soft and pervasive, with the likeness

of smoke, if smoke were thick and heavy and suffocating

like a cloud weighing more than a herd of elephants fornicating

in my mind. The apathetic tide drowns out my suns

and purpose and drive for life is lost. Suddenly I am in my hands guns

of laziness and procrastination appear and I am shooting myself.

A captured soldier facing torture I watch as the sharp edge

of the self esteem pendulum swings closer to cutting myself.

I sit still clinging to my shield of denial and wearing the mask of ego

as thoughts stampede through my head like horses,  and from mouth spill

like a stream of wisdom and passion, and for a moment I almost believe

in myself. The sunrise almost peeks through the clouds to illuminate

the dull monotony of my waste but it’s crushed by the weight of fear.

Fear so potent and tangible I can cut a slice and eat it. What once was clear

is clouded by the blood dripping from from the ever swinging pendulum.

To relieve the cuts I bandage my wounds with fantasy,  the sum

total of my life is consumed by the lack of substance and worth,

with the obsessing of superficial matters like weight and girth

though everyday thousands of people die dreadful deaths and millions

more die the quiet death of desperation, blind to the billions

of stars that light the sky and like me blind, to the light within

in their minds that whisper things like “Change. Make the World a Better Place,

Make your Life mean something”.  We get drunk on fear to forget and regress,

our hearts bleed and cry their silents screams for meaning and purpose

but it hurts to admit that we are incomplete and lacking, so I suppose

we just laugh with people we hate and people who hate themselves

and drink ourselves into a stupor so that we can have a one night stand with ourselves

because only when we are drunk on false praise and applause can we handle it.

The fact that we are selling ourselves short of the shadow of our potential, unfit

to handle even the slightest sign that we can achieve and be somebody,

so we hide behind masks of complacency while inside screaming for anybody

to hear and understand that the guns and blade we are using hurt.

This is an honest poem that rips away the covers that we place to hide the pain,

like when an abused child walks around with long sleeves covering the bruises

we walk around with dead eyes to cover the hate, a false smile has its uses.

People know and understand but forget to remember because no one wants to know.

I am perfect and potential, and they understand how life is heavy and slow

and they too met with the cloud of apathy that killed their suns,

their seed and expression and so they finish the suicide with their guns,

each day walking through a life that gets gray and grayer and jumping hoops

illusions of meaning created by society to supplant and supplement, groups

built to contain and tame the desire for reality and like placebo pills

we believe that we are living life though we are only shadows and like oil spills

we only contaminate the world in an attempt to capture green paper and yellow rocks,

spilling red blood and killing our brothers so that we can be baptized in holy water. 

We walk through this valley of the shadow of death and dream of a real world

knowing that we only have to wake up from this dream to grasp our desire

but like an addicting nightmare, we are hooked,  our minds wrapped in the deceit

and so we joke about the zombie apocalypse and fail to see the dead within.

I say we when I really mean me because I am alone and I am dying,

I am watching as the life leaves me and I grow gray. I know who the murderer is

but I can’t stop myself because I love myself abusively and I am addicted to this pain.

To the roller coaster of love and hate that is myself, I am so strong and powerful that I cannot

stop myself from killing myself because I am pathetically apathetic.

I know myself the same way a bulimic girl knows her reflection in the mirror,

the goods and bad distorted and contorted and I am unable to decide what to do.

Drown myself in a sea of lust and false life or take the gun and kill myself and hope to resurrect,

to be resuscitated and given the breath of life

breath that will blow like a hurricane and clear the smoke.

Chase Night Away


Do you remember when we danced the night away,

our laughing steps banishing the darkness?

Do you remember how we would slowly drift and sway

like flying flower petals, we were a marvelous mess.

I remember when time seemed to stop passing

and rest awhile in the sunlit forest clearing as we slept,

dreaming together of pleasant tomorrows surpassing

in splendor any of the hidden desires that we kept.

We couldn’t even call it love then, it was a seed unfurling,

a poignant moment of magic and mystery and more,

that superseded reality and made me want to sing.

You made me want to sing, about you, the one I adore.

Though time passed and the music stopped playing

and the flames that burned so bright are buried in winter

every time I hear the melody of spring, I can hear you saying

that you love me and all the lonely nights pass as a blur.

Do you remember when we danced the night away?


Resurrect Me


I died, choking on the silent syllables

gurgling I struggled to survive the onslaught

of bile from my belly as my ears burned.

The churning spasms drowning out sound

as if hoping to save me from what I heard.

It’s too late, you have already murdered me

your words small and sharp like a razor

slicing through my my tendons and sinews

leaving me helpless, unable even to blink

as your lips open hysterically wide, cavernous

and the words tumble out like sentences.

Prison sentences sundering my freedom

and chaining my heart to a memory jail.

Resurrect me, I beg you. My ears bleed

but still I am listening for your voice

I could be Lazarus if only you would speak.

It’s cold and lonely in the grave alone

so call my name and summon me forth.

I see it in your eyes that you love me still

resurrect me, for I am not yours to kill

Memory Lane


I drove through the memories, past forgotten

relics reminding me that once I lived here.

Hear me, they whisper in the audible melody

of the familiar whistle wind  of her hair waving,  

glittering gold in the undercurrent of her giggles.

The familiar signposts flash past my eyes

as her face flushes with a rosy pink color

like the pink pulse of desire that once pumped

but now only hazy recollections remain,

but still so familiar I can navigate the street blind

as if only sunlight shelters us from the truth.

But even if she birthed within me reality,

the past is past and better left preserved.

Even though my house still stands stalwart,

another now abides in its beautiful confines

so I drive past, tears unshed and remember

a time when we would play hide and seek

in the dark with our hearts, still tender.

Some Days


Some days you write a poem because being alive is too hard,

these words crawl shakily from the tip of my pen

as if too afraid of reality to commit suicide on the pure page,

but still the pen bleeds black across the surface,

charcoal tears concealing the charred remains of my heart,

my hurt from when I held the sun too dear.


Some days silence is the only answer to the questions echoing

as my eyes beg to drink in perfection

but all I can manage to do is give them absolution in darkness

so sleep and pray for a better tomorrow.

Pray for a mountain to climb and a dragon to defeat, to desire

because only in triumph can you cry.


Some days it is better to succumb to the sadness and secede,

refuse to preserve your image

and simply exist in the moment as if begging for death

but in that moment truly living.

Seek shelter from the sun but let the rain wash away the scars

leaving behind only memories, gleaming.

Summer Baby


Summer baby, melt the snow from off of the trees, for me

It’s been an awful few months

Summer baby, so hurry up and come back to me


Summer baby, I’d like some sunshine after the snow, oh before

I drown in sadness so drear

Summer baby, so hurry up and come back to me


Think of all the fun I’ve missed,

Think of coming back I insist

This year it’d be oh so good

If you’d make winter cease to exist


Summer honey, it’d be sweet for you to give me, a treat

And make the skies ever clear

Summer honey, so hurry up and come back to me


Summer cutie, there’s one thing I really do need, indeed

For you to chase old winter away

Summer cutie, so hurry up and come back to me


Summer baby, the snow’s causing a really big mess and distress

Oh please just give me a sign

Summer baby, so hurry up and come back to me


Before I go, I almost forgot

This time around please don’t be too hot

I really do, believe in you

Please don’t make this be for naught


Summer honey, if you bring along Mrs. Spring, I’ll sing

And even leave you alone

Summer honey, so hurry up and warm me again


So hurry up and warm me again

Hurry up and come back to me

Midnight in Paris.


Beauty held sacred is only ashes

when the flames of passion burn low. 

Better beauty be beheld from afar,

unadulterated and unaltered

simply presented upon an altar.

But those blessed with beauty beyond

are but mere mortals masquerading

as gods in whose image we all are

and yet still we cannot touch the truth

for fear of tarnishing it with deceit. 

So we receive the receipt of regret

for moments not spent, sadly shelved. 

I crave your beauty, your mask

but I am too hard and too strong

I will shatter your creation, I will

break your mask and expose you. 

Can your heart handle the hurt

and can you sing in the sunlight

when all you’ve known is rain?

Already you reign in my heart, but

still you are wet behind the ears. 

Years remain between us, years. 

Sadness lingers in the passing silence,

as sweet wedding bells toll empty

but the fear of denial died in death

so let us dine, deny death and live. 

Let us love, even if beauty broken be

let it be, for so it goes i suppose. 

Let beauty rest in barren grave

and let us blaze in blissful ugliness, 

dance the titillating tango of time

and forgetting briefly that reality exists. 

Let us spent this midnight in Paris. 

You are Alive


You are a wildfire consuming candle wick,

so alive that it hurts-

I avert my gaze so I don’t dirty your blaze.

You are an explosion of wildflower weeds

choking the boring expanse of green with color,

relentlessly virile in your quest to live.

You are alive!

My body still burns from your careless caress

and the lines of our history scar my with mystery.

So many people have tried to put you out,

you helped,  trying to drown in complacency

but only steam met your descent, decency

too vivid to capture, too real to steal

You are a lightning bug!

A firefly flitting fierce across the solemn night,

fight is your middle name and even when curled

like a fetus wracked with wretched pain from panic

you break down the walls that try to constrain you.

So beautiful that death dances with you,

constantly reminded that to keep you

would only break your heart.

You are a wildfire blazing on the tip of a candle wick,

wicked glee in the spring of your every step