last color

I’m resigning from
my position as mud
I remember the greener
grass and warmer
sunny day fondly

walking through the old
brick paved
paths that no longer
be a summer that
no one enjoys

I don’t feel like I’m living
the whole day
it’s sunset now

but i want to feel it all
I want to remember every chirp
and color
but i’m staring at a bruise on
my hand
making sure that my resentment
doesn’t show through
I’m waking up late
and making pancakes for myself

I’m thinking of the next thing
I’m thinking of being here
I need to be here
I’m tugging my new dogs
collar to train him to walk
politely by my side

I’m pretending to not
be overwhelmed by the
lack of intimacy
with my partner
pretending to be ok with
being so close to someone
but also farther away then
most people see me

it’s a balancing act of staring
at the warm orange
end of the sunset
while walking off
the edge of the street

The last sip of coffee is usually cold

Today I am wearing a sweater,
leggings, and clogs.
I will create the November,
that should have happened last.
My coffee is in a mug,
to temporarily forget that plastic exists.
College aged girls are studying,
reminding me sweetly
of my failed experience.

I am sweating profusely, it’s 90 degrees
and humid, why am i wearing this?
This mug only
results in extra work for the barista.
They probably hate the people
who use their mugs.
Why did drop out?
Can I actually make it without a degree?
Well it’s not my fault that I went crazy.
My mind doesn’t work the way I want it to.

Band practice

The tools are more expensive
than the end product,
most of the time.

What I will produce with these $60 worth of tools ,
will be laying around,
for only my mother to see.

Writing is free but
is a luxury.

When poems go nowhere,
like this one,
there is the opportunity to erase, delete,
cut and manipulate,

without a trace of a letter.

Painting is layered, mistakes and all.
What is and
what could have been.

Hidden to the eye,
but existent in the nature.


I felt deeply and without remorse,
so much so,
that I was stamped with a label
and imprisoned.

In a moment of sole
the mind is lost,
the logic is disregarded.
What is left is the warmth of every single nerve in the body,

The light, pulsing
storm like but balanced, with no
shame involved.

I felt,
and I can’t explain fully
because my thoughts weren’t

Anywhere but here

I sit in blank,
with no wording.

Language is what’s lost.
What I need is another,

Perhaps, I should leave the country,
and acquire a new vocabulary.

How lovely,
to write poetry,
from a charming french cafe.

For now, this empty,
Starbucks will
The jazz like rhythm
I yearn for,
will have to come through music.
And the muse,

anywhere but here.

I’m not here

I am attempting to keep the
state, that I am in, a secret
from myself.

Delusion is the only protection I have
from my current situation.

I have nothing, and no future plans to
look forward to.

I miss people and a specific person.

I have no transportation,
so I am as stranded as my train
of thought.

Dislocation is heavy on the heart,
but good for the art.

Future plans

Having no future plans,
truly, isn’t as scary
as some people
make it out to be.

I may be homeless
or jobless at some point,
but working a 9 to 5 that I hate
would be worse.

At least there is a certain passion to this

Even if I have a secured job after I graduate,
still wouldn’t bring me the sense of security
I need.
The only certain thing
I have
is myself.

So I should work on myself, right?

Perhaps we are all working on ourselves by making future plans.
As in to not commit suicide.
Future plans require
a certain presence
suicide would get in the way of.


Have you ever noticed the way people can spot an artist
from a far.
Is it the dress?
or in the cool graceful manner
that they carry themselves,
articulate steps with a
I’m over this attitude

The coolest older couple just walked in
The woman is wearing a tie dye blouse and a long skirt
which is belted at the waist

The man is wearing a black t-shirt, blue jeans
and Rayban sunglasses
Their outfits compliment each other

I could stare at ‘artists’ all day
the energy they give off
is fresh, and intelligent

Actually, this is where I get my inspiration,
the people that I look up to
the people who go to art galleries
the people who listen to jazz
the people who decorate their homes with art