dead flowers.

dead flowers

are forgotten because they

lose their vibrancy

so are our lives 


from my poetry volume, logolepsy, coming soon. 





rearview mirror.

i’m tired of looking

at myself in the rearview mirror of the car




for a sign i did something right

and if nothing else, i just want to prove to myself there is something i am good for

besides breaking



the lives around me.


nothing changes, except everything…

you never plan to live your life broken and torn, it just happens,

nothing changes except everything.

and, people are telling you’re not what they expected when they see you after ten years.

you wonder if you should take that offensively, but you just smile and brush it off.

the house you live in has new creaks in the wooden floors, and the windows don’t open as easily. the people around you are more prone to yell, because you’re older.

and, you’re yelling back.

fighting in the dining room; clenching your fists and counting the seconds, one, two, three…

your father, the one who took you for go-cart rides, and bought you a 100-pack of waffles for your birthday, is asking what you were thinking…

your mother, the one who took you to the library and let you have how-ever-many books you wanted, is shaking her head in disapproval.

you drift apart and there’s nothing to do about it, because you aren’t little anymore.  you feel a simple bond, and you try to reach out to save what you had…but it’s not the same.

so, you pack your things. you kiss their cheeks, and say you love them. because, you do, but something hasn’t been right with you for a while.

and, then you’re gone. eighteen years. that’s what they gave you, and you repay them with, goodbyes, frustrations, worries, and hurt.

you wipe the tears as the drip down your face. you let the emotion seep onto the concrete, and eventually it will evaporate into the stars.




I think it’s sad,

that some people never look up at the sky anymore,

that they never talk to imaginary friends, instead they let the silence drive them insane.

that they will let the light leave their children’s eyes, and accept it as ‘reality…”

that they will forever wonder how to pay the bills, how to make the next paycheck count,

cynicism is a sickness,

and many of us are unwilling victims.

cynicism is a sleepiness,

and many of us may never wake up…



Her hands have a slight tremor. “Stop that; I am in control,” she whispers to them. They have words written in pen–smudging on the ends–all over them. People tell her the ink will poison her, and she just laughs.

Her eyes are held open by mascara and cups of coffee. No cream, no sugar, she likes the bitterness.

She hums something under her breath. A song from some distant memory. That Ben Rector song that made her smile and cry at the same time.

She’s been heartbroken, but the broken heart is fixed with a little tape and glitter glue.

Her taste is eclectic; never fit into a box. Her room is littered with pictures of old memories; movie tickets, polaroids, letters, journals, and glass figurines. Her stuffed animals lined up on a shelf, and she kisses their cheeks when their eyes droop.

Maybe, she never grew up. She got taller, wears makeup, smiles when she’s told, strives for better grades, fell for boys, and felt her friends maturing day by day.

But–she would still hug the tree in the front yard, or dance along to her favorite songs when everyone else told her to stop.

She watched the city the other day. She drove her mother around, and she realized how alone she felt now.

So many people were gone; some by choice, and some because life is full of chapters. It seemed the town’s population of kindred spirits dwindled daily.

And, tears blurred her vision as she sped along the highway.

Growing up wasn’t what she always expected it would be…maybe she never would be everything they wanted. Maybe, she would always push boundaries, and always get cut from pushing the envelope too much.

That was alright. And, maybe people would keep leaving, because of college, jobs, and responsibility. And, maybe new people would appear and they’d make unforgettable memories together as well.

So, she still hummed the Ben Rector song, and tapped her trembling fingers to the piano playing in her mind, and tried to think of a time where innocence and happiness were second nature.









someone give me life,

because lately I’m having a hard time staying awake

I laid in my bed–mid day–

and stared at my ceiling in silence

my sweatshirt doesn’t keep me warm anymore

I’m chilled to my core

there is a lump in my throat,

I tried to wash it away

but it’s latched on from my lack of tears

no one seems to understand it,

neither do I.

the basslines in my headphones,

resuscitate me long enough

to keep breathing.



fight time.

We sat side by side in the dressing room,

tears streaming down our faces,

broken, bleeding, crying for help;

you held my hand, and said we had to stay friends,

fight time,

fight the impending pages rustling by quickly…

too quickly.

I want to freeze time and stay with you.

I want to miss you every time I see a blonde;

to keep writing you letters with ‘I love you,’ implied in every line.

Life is cruel.

I won’t let it take you from me.

I love you too much.




past tense.

The Neighbourhood came out with an EP,

and I thought of you…the days we would sit in your brother’s Subaru, and sing the lyrics to The Beach.

You’re right…I’m abrasive, cold, and suppress emotions. I don’t want to hurt the people around me. I don’t want to disappoint.

When you wrote it though, I cried. I just realized how you actually saw me. And, I know you saw how I actually saw you through my words.

Maybe, we were spiteful. Or, maybe we meant it. I can’t tell if I did or not, and that’s why I haven’t called.

I’m sorry. Because, I miss you but I know I screwed up, and that our friendship is a thing of the past.

It’s hard using past tense. Was and were are such devastating words.

Maybe, we can visit present tense one day. If that’s alright with you…


anne & diane

I want to go back to when we were kids,

drunk on sunshine and sugar

rhyming poetry, because we were novices and thought poetry had to rhyme.

Linking arms; never separated for too long.

Anne and Diane.

We took the world, and made it our own.


Now you’re off on the west coast–

where I always thought you belonged–

but since you left, there’s a hole in my heart

and it grows every day.


No one corrects my grammar,

reads my stories,

listens to the chaos of my life,

shares milkshakes with me,

reads the same books as me,

shows me an amazing new song,

shares a twin bed with me,

holds me when I’m crying on the church floor.

Only you.