Hesitant Dawn

Lentils in tow
floating slow
river, rendered
pardoned by snow.

Essence encumbered
etches, grows.
Breath sequestered;
bottled clothes.

Barren bedside,
ripple of light.
Polyester penance,
dewed sight.


The Teen Finally Sleeps

D.A.R.E. was weird, right? We can all agree that was strange and jarring.

I thought I would never smoke marijuana until I was 16 at my friend’s birthday party. They were right about one thing–that peer pressure tho!

I kept smoking through the rest of high school. You might think that messed me up. Made me worse, slowed me down.

Man…all I know is, I could¬†finally…finally¬†sleep.

It was so great. I was a bit high sometimes, which can make you feel like you aren’t yourself. But Christ on a damn crutch, I felt more like myself than ever before. I slept about 4 hours on average each night as a kid. From sophomore year on, whatever bullshit weed did to my brain…it was worth it. I was finally able to sleep.


Hot Pockets were a lot better, too. I legitimately got a boner eating a Four Cheese, once.

Slumber (Prose Poetry)

I dream of colors who know each other by name. They leap upon one another, establishing a dominance only known to the kingdom outside civilization. The reactant rocks and emblems of walks combine into a singular emotion, and it does not rest. The body lies in slumber while the mind sits in a corner to wait, a corner of itself, watching the proceedings of its own uncertainty. Warmth is present, but fails to pierce the skin. Lacking any oceans, the heat folds instead of holding, lapping at a flesh inconsiderate of what it houses.

Singular stretching reaches a goal. Symbolic wishes push away action. If one is to wish upon a star, they should seek the dust within. Fairness is only present in the binding, everlasting battle between the blanketing Sun and the stripping space that surrounds. Greet the cacophony of yellow to red as you would the white space between the blues of rest. These words are easy to consume, yet altogether difficult to digest.

I am the first to know when light should linger.

Treading the Night Needle (Poem)

A symphony in dream minor

parallels the grin

treading the line between etching and drawing

a singular distance can always bring one closer

to where they had always been in the first place.

Scorch the darkness with

a torch of

burgundy sundust

brushing off the sighs of stars

until it becomes song.

Veered to the left,

you increase the transparency of the little drippings finding

their way in between the cracks of your fortitude

the wax is lacking any substance beyond

what the flame tells it to possess.

Clever, the brick lies

streets and turning towards one another

whispering of your chosen path but

the only lines painted atop them are

those purchased by whoever decided

it was good to have side, and you

crankily try to decipher

how a map ever permits directions

to contradict one another.

Never sleep.

Nitpick and note

dial and soap

the suds are drowning at the base.

Losing a single locke of hair

cannot be so bad


encountering the pile of forgotten threads

you needled without a second glance.

This terrifies me.