(2013)
Autumn sneaks in preceding dormancy Leaves take on new beauty with nothing left in them but a fa… Individually insignificant
There seems to be a drought in my… but who knows if it is the cause or the result of the war raging within me
There is something to be said of a true friend One who will pull the knife from your back One who will stitch the wounds
I wrote this while thinking of you so I guess you could say this poem is eight years in the making
I get my silence in five minute doses before the plane overhead brings me back to earth
The road is long and winding like nothing you can imagine Too many off ramps to count but too few in hindsight
I have whispered your name into the air so many times it has become the breeze that blows
Everyday brings a new death in three words give or take Some days I drown
The hands of this watch haven’t moved since the last time you did and I’m not sure if I’m ready to hear the ticking
I’ll keep searching for the meaning of life and I hope I find it as crumpled paper nearish a trash can
Passion doesn’t arise from 12 point Times New Roman but rather from ink on one page and another
I say hello and you say nothing You may hear me you may even think of a response
The pen must be mightier than the sword For there is nothing that will spill your guts faster than a bit of ink that says
Just when I get back on my feet you pass on by and I lose my footing Again
I write sharp words with a sharper knife on page after page of what might as well be the skin of my back
