Some days are better than others.

Some nights I lie and wait

Hearing the silence echo off the walls and into my ears

My eyes fall to the ceiling and I am reminded of who I am

The ceiling is off white and cruel

Our contests are short lived and spiteful

He always wins our game

He asks me questions that I am terrified to answer

About life and death

Pain and sorrow

And the longing to be someone

I fear I am destined for nothing

Except staring contests with my ceiling

I have come to realize things work better in the dark

Wrong words and ill sketches

Wrong people with distrustful pasts

Wrong people will look right if the lights are dim enough

Hidden away deep in the shadows with the plague of intent

Glimmering of story and life and awareness

There is something about the night that is troublesome and alluring

And it asks me to follow every once in a while

The night wears a mask and a cape

A silhouette of what could have been

And what could be

It hits me hardest in a bustling crowd

Even screaming silence forgets who it is

In the mix of words and laughter I am reminded who I am

And it hits me again

Knowing who I am not

I am not nice

I am cruel

I am not pretty

I am cold

I am not intelligent

I am clever

I am not selfless

I am just trying to do the right thing

I am not who I am

I am a mere glimpse of who I could be

In the canvas of my mind

Are splatters of wishes and reality

Reality is the canvas itself,

Constantly reminding the splashes of who they wish they were

Where they stand in line in our lives

In every face is a new canvas and a new color

Waiting to be discovered in an array of strokes from a brush

Reality mingles with wish so often it is easy to forget

I think about all the times I have stared at my ceiling

How many games we have played

I would always ask him when he became the abyss of thought

I would ask,

Wait,

And stare

I stared so long into the abyss

That I didn’t realize I became it

If i had wings

I would fly up

Sore down

Spinning round and round

If i had wings

I would fly

Up to the stars 

to see them shimmer

If i had wings

I would glide

Then shoot up

Into the sky

Over mountains

Past the snow

Into the clouds

And watch the sunrise

If i had wings i would hold on tight

To the sun above the clouds

Feeling the warmth

On my feathers

If i had wings i would sleep

Using them as blankets

Curl them around me

Snoring softly

But i do not have wings

I have arms

So i will use blankets

And wish for wings

I seek

I look

I search

I question

I am lost

I am not far nor near

Nor high nor low

In the dark all alone

Earnestly I seek you

With all my heart

With all my strength

With all my soul

In the quite I hear you

In the chaos I feel your peace

In the darkness I see your light

Just close enough to feel the warm

Yet still in the shadows

On the fine line

Dancing yet unseen

Sing yet unheard

Move yet unnoticed

In the dark all alone

I walk where the sun forgets to linger,
beneath branches that clutch at the sky,
their fingers tangled—aching, reaching—
like mine, but finding nothing.

The air is damp with silence,
pressing against my chest,
while shadows curl around my ankles,
like whispers I cannot understand.

I search for footprints, for echoes—
but the path behind me swallows itself,
and the trees only answer with stillness,
rooted in a language of loneliness.

I search for footprints, for echoes—
but the path behind me swallows itself,
and the trees only answer with stillness,
rooted in a language of loneliness.

The wind hums low, a hollow tune,
threading through brittle branches,
and I wonder if it carries a name—
but it is not mine.

My breath curls like smoke in the cold,
drifting upward, then gone—
as if even the air forgets I was here.
I press on, though the roots snarl like traps.

I press on, though the night weighs heavy,

and the stars blink like distant strangers.

Each step is a question:

Will I always walk alone?

When laughter and faces,

Familiar since birth,

Turn harsh and loud

With a cruel heart.

Unguided—

Falling through the cracks

Of a world steeped in darkness.

Strings wrapped ‘round fingers

Pulled to a fro

Taut from exertion.

A home without light,

Naught but ice,

Slivers that dig into 

Skin.

Pushing through the darkness,

A liquid shadow

That pulls at my arms,

Tugging, tugging.

I break through the surface,

Finding purchase in warmth.

The loving embrace,

An open heart.

These faces I’ve known,

Each one its own,

A mirror of passion,

Of care,

Of fondness.

Warm embraces,

Growing smiles.

A family of my own

Creation.

Tick-tock, the clock is wrong,
time froze where it doesn’t belong.
A tea-stained table, a shattered cup—
the Hatter laughs but never looks up.

“Have you seen the time?” he cries,
though madness sparkles in his eyes.
March Hare dances, Dormouse sleeps,
a broken rhythm no one keeps.

Alice stares, her questions die,
Lost in the Hatter’s Mind

Tick-tock, the clock is wrong,

time froze where it doesn’t belong.

A tea-stained table, a shattered cup—

the Hatter laughs but never looks up.

“Have you seen the time?” he cries,

though madness sparkles in his eyes.

March Hare dances, Dormouse sleeps,

a broken rhythm no one keeps.

Alice stares, her questions die,

as riddles twist and tangle the sky.

The Cheshire Cat grins wide, then fades,

his secrets slipping through moonlit haze.

The Queen of Hearts screams, “Off with her head!”

but her words are brittle, her roses bled.

The Caterpillar hums, the Jabberwock stalks,

and the Hatter spins as the silence talks.

“Where are you going?” Alice pleads,

but Wonderland answers only in seeds—

of chaos, of dreams, of stories untold,

where nothing is certain, and nothing grows old.

Lost in the maze of his whirling mind,

the Hatter toasts to the end of time.

For in this land, all drift, unmoored,

and what is lost cannot be restored.

as riddles twist and tangle the sky.
The Cheshire Cat grins wide, then fades,
his secrets slipping through moonlit haze.

The Queen of Hearts screams, “Off with her head!”
but her words are brittle, her roses bled.
The Caterpillar hums, the Jabberwock stalks,
and the Hatter spins as the silence talks.

“Where are you going?” Alice pleads,
but Wonderland answers only in seeds—
of chaos, of dreams, of stories untold,
where nothing is certain, and nothing grows old.

Lost in the maze of his whirling mind,

the Hatter toasts to the end of time.

For in this land, all drift, unmoored,

and what is lost cannot be restored.

Life:

Dawn till dusk, deep in my heart, I do believe that life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly, Each laugh, tear and lullaby becomes memory because tomorrow is just another day where I do not yet know who I'll be, what I'll say or how I will say it.

Belong:

Losing the battle against sleep, I am happy to belong. Fire burning words into stone, with a hole in my heart. The rest of me is already leaving, the rest of me is already gone. Love is like a blanket with the soft hush of wind through the leaves knowing that our future summers are as good as the past yet we don't understand yet and we don't believe yet. But always remember that what is bad won't be bad forever because what is good can sometimes last a long, long time and looking up in the darkness at a ceiling of stars you see a whole new world.

In mind:

Looking out at the water, the ocean is right there if you look out your window. Words gathering meaning, becoming thoughts outside my head, cold and treeless as a bad dream, holding a story that we’ll tell again and again all winter long. Already I’m drawing circles on the glass, humming myself someplace far away from here, already color and sounds and words, it’s always felt like the place we belong to, each thing we wish for will one day come true.

Glass blows

I pop the Bubbles

Like snow.

In the quiet hours where shadows dance,
A flicker of movement, a fleeting glance.
Silent paws on ancient stone,
The witch is never quite alone.

Eyes of ember, sharp and bright,
Gleaming in the pale moonlight.
A creature born of spell and night,
Bound to her by an unseen sight.

A whisper shared without a word,
A pact that only souls have heard.
Through every curse and spell undone,
They move as two, but act as one.

Feathers black or fur of shade,
From the shadow's breath, their form is made.
In flight or pounce, they guard, they guide,
The witch’s power by their side.

In cauldron’s smoke and candle’s glow,
Together through the worlds they flow.
A partner neither bound by chains,
But tethered still, through joy and pains.

And when the stars grow cold and dim,

Her power rests, but not in him.

For even in the darkest night,

Her familiar stands, her constant light.

Little Red Riding Hood strayed from the path

and — well, 

I don’t need to tell you

what came of that. 

Red strayed

so I stayed

right and ready

no wolf would find me 

I walk the expected. 

It’s good and nice and 

so utterly boring

the same trawl

every moment the same as the 

one prior

there’s a certain madness in redundancy

the way my eyes bleed

from haphazardness gleams

you see there’s nothing 

to my everything

my footsteps pressing into the same prints. 

I judge Red because

how could she be so stupid 

to let a wolf bite? 

How could one

jeopardize

it all

for flowery words

and the thrill of risk? 

I judge her

because I could be her. 

Because I see how one could. 

A wolf brings in trouble

but trouble brings excitement

a sharp claw tearing away my current 

reality 

and breathing life

in its deathly growls

a wolf brings trouble

and I want trouble. 

How insane must I be

but still the words branch true

I want some insanity 

some action

some change from this 

beaten down path

I’d relish the hurt

the pain wouldn’t bother me

because then I’d have something worth 

living for. 

I want to live. 

I want to do more with my life

than wear a cloak and

hold a wicker basket

I want to hold my life in my hands and 

play with it like

a small doll 

I have dreams and ambitions

that this path doesn’t hold

and I’m tripping because 

these footprints are growing

deeper

and I can’t climb out

I can’t breathe and —

No. 

I have all these words

I’ll never say 

because Red hurt more than just her

and the wolves won’t play fair 

so I avoid their stares

and keep walking down my path

because I don’t even think I’d know what to do

if my shoe stepped too far left. 

Red strayed 

I stayed

she died

I’m unalive.

Opening up the window with a groan of the wooden frame, I let the sky consume me.

For two, maybe three years now, there’s been a pot on my floor,

a week ago I finally cleaned it up, though it’s been something I prefer to ignore.

Long since dead, it was a jade plant from your house, I forgot to water it, not even a douse.

Now, it sits on the table at my bedside, pot within cup upon saucer, no reason to grouse.

It was thanks to my girlfriend that I ever got so far,

I think you would like her, she’s a veritable main sequence star,

she’s kind and she’s bright but she burns herself out, every night.

In the air hangs a heft that whispers of summer, heavy on the horizon,

I dread its approach even as I feel it encroach, though it’s a plot point there’s little surprise in.

The heat always comes, along with the sun,

some find it fun whilst I’d far prefer to run,

it weighs down my bones, clings to my clothes,

a sticky film even a cold shower can’t wash off.

Still, there is some comfort in the unbearable heat,

a nostalgia, memories of what we can no longer repeat.

Wiffleball as the sun dips low, pine sap sticking to my hands,

uncomfortable chairs and creaking stairs, tying together old strands.

It’s been years since we drove those roads and yet,

I still remember them. I hope I never forget.

Down the hill, past the reddish building and the conifer trees.

Drop me off and stay, watch me fight and tease,

play classical music in the car that smells like fake sweetness,

laugh at my jokes, smile at me in a way without concreteness

because I can’t remember what your smile looked like.

They say to take the road less traveled by,

but I’d prefer not to. I’m a landmark kind of guy,

I need to know the path before I can give any kind of directions.

It gets easier with every time, I’ll add it to my collections,

gathering data and filing it away,

waiting for maybe a sunnier day,

but I don’t like the sun, so probably not,

I’ll try to come by on a day less hot.

We wear memories into roads, we beat paths into the ground,

erosion and water washing it away without a sound.

Still, I remember the way, as the crow flew,

even if in your home, there’s no more you.

I am the daughter of brokenity, of bruises and disaster

a broken vase filled with thorned roses and regrets

a mess of eons gone and centuries wasted 

I am the daughter of beauty, of love and well wishes 

a kiss of bliss with all the discrepancies of well endowed silence

a embrace of tight need and apologies gifted 

I am the daughter of death, of ends and darkness 

a shadow of doubt and agony 

a black stain on a silver dress and cut string 

I am the daughter of life, of beginnings and light

a water ripple danced with honeysuckle blooms 

a breath of fresh air and freedom gleams

I am the daughter of will, of might and pride 

a stubborn mule against the raging tides

a heavy hand and loud voice

I am the daughter of cowardice, of fear and running shoes

a ladybug flying away from winter rains

a shy cluster of desperation ready to flee and spook 

I am the daughter of all, of everything and anything

a painting of colors scattered in organization and disarray 

a nervous ball of energy and movement 

I am the daughter of naught, of nothing and no one

a void of empty feelings and stillness

a cold sense of sadness and nothing to buoy 

I am the daughter 

a daughter

a human. 

Humanity is strange.

It’s the spectrum of impossible ideals and theories.

Are we truly human?

What is human?

In what we do are we human?

Or is it in our thoughts?

What, of all of our words and thoughts and actions, makes us human?

Love?

Kindness?

Truth?

Is there something intangible about humanity?

One that can’t be broken down into words or concepts? 

Or is humanity a concrete grasp?

How many escape the grasp?

What is inhumanity; what is humanity; what is the difference if to err is human and yet perfection is expected of human and yet we’re not all human unless we’re perfect and yet imperfections can be inhuman and yet-

What is the difference between what is and isn’t human?

How do we dare define the concept of “human”, of “existence?”

Do we dare?

Is this why it’s so indefinable? 

Because we don’t dare define what no God has singularly defined?

Do we think ourselves to be Gods?

How can we define our fellow man?

Is the definition of Human to be written by a human or by an inhuman?

What are we in this machine?

Is the machine all that is human and Human all that is machine?

Wait, nevermind, I found all the crosswalks, I’m human.

Human.

Is that what I am?
Flesh and bone held together

By wells of marrow and glue.

Is it enough?

Joy.

Is that what I feel?

When summer nights

Are feathlight kisses

On scarred hands and

Bruised knees.

Anger.

Do all see red?

When chains that singe skin

Clamp around tightened fists.

Eyes molten, mind driven.

Sadness.

Why is everything grey?

Why does the world dim,

When all I want is light?

The world sings its wail,

Its cry to space,

A mournful tale.

What am I?

With these emotions welled deep.

Locked away, forgotten

Out of reach.

Who am I?

Feeling yet again.

A rattle in my chest,

A fuzzy warm

In this vessel.

Human, is who I am. 

Being the only one of a kind

Can be a burden sometimes

But I know

If I go on

The burden will be too heavy

And then I will fall

So rare it is to find a girl

Who’s creativity is flowing

With peace

And laughter

And contentedness

But that is not me

Will it ever be me?

Perhaps in the future

When rarity

Is not so high

Maybe I can be seen as different but

As one of them too

When the time comes

For rarity to fall as I did

Will I miss

The uniqueness

And the quality of being special?

I think I just might

But I might not have to

For rarity lies in everyone

Whether old

Whether young

Whether tall or small

For there is rarity everywhere

Rarity is in the world

Rarity is in that person

Standing on

The beach

Watching the orcas play

Rarity is in you too

Does that scare you?

Do not be alarmed

Because

There is

Rarity in me just like you

And there always has been

You have always been rare

I have always been rare

Your sister

Your brother

Have always been rare

Which now makes me wonder

If everyone is rare

All people that ever existed

In you

In me

In absolutely everything ever then

Is “rarity” rare at all?

There is nothing left

but dust bunnies

inside this big wide room

Boarded up windows

and echoes of memories

you can't quite reach

Very dull

lifeless

speckled with dryness

And yet

when the moment is right

there is a breeze

Carrying a warm

wondrous scent

of apples and trees

Of berries and bees

of a recognition 

made of you and me

It rustles the 

grayed bunnies

sends them running

Up up up

they float up so high

like real rabbits hopping in the night

You breathe

in and out 

out and in

Clinging to the times

that no longer are

images that no longer be

And watch the dust bunnies

dance in a tuneless move

and feel the commonity turn magical. 

I see footprints in the particles that collect into sand, 

recollections of remembrances, like postcards in hand 

and other shapes as well, ghosts of sea shells 

So I wonder if you’re wandering inland 

followed by the steady smell 

of salt all-surrounding, the sand is steadily gaining

Pixelated like the Polaroids I put up in frames, 

evidence of us, from both now and before. 

Sand grains still track along the floor, and it’s icy walking across the cabin at midnight 

Checking to see if my soaked clothes are any warmer in the dryer 

Because I was silly and wore socks to the seaside. 

Then switching to an app on my phone to track the paths of starlight 

As the cloth goes through a final five minute fight to undrench itself,

I shuffle things around on the shelf absentmindedly, 

Like I won’t be leaving in three days. 

Putting the binoculars back in my backpack because I saw the spouts of whales, the ocean in an encounter with their lungs 

I’m not used to covering my tracks, tiptoeing across floorboards trying not to wake you and take you from an oblivion of sleep into a salty, roaring nothing 

Yeah, I’m not used to company. 

Fast forward through time, 

The clothes are warm, but they contain a kind of coarseness, stiff with salt, no matter how much I wash them 

And painful pangs of memories, they’re just as persistent 

So I race up the stairs at two times the pace 

Sand in the shape of the space I occupied 

I stare off into outer space, there’s a meteor shower tonight.

You can see it above the bay, 

And you’re coming in as waves, shaping into your fine hair, like the blades in seagrass 

And echoes of blue-gray eyes in sea glass 

I still pass by that road and think-

It’s funny seeing the shape of my foot tracking salt water on cement 

My footfall looks so soft, and yet

I walk like there’s an earthquake coming from my feet

It’s a special sort of release 

Not feeling like you have to contain or cage the sound of your movement, muddling the page 

of clear white cement that melts into a burning black, charcoal paper, 

the closer home you get then it seems ever-later. 

Standing under the sun, 

The path that you paved for another person is gleaming in the heat, but maybe it’s an illusion, maybe it’s from the summer sheen, maybe it will soon be gone. 

Follow me and find me if you can, 

Tracking my footsteps in the sand 

The evidence that I exist 

That is just as fluid as my running is. 

Follow the footprints, see where they lead

They lead you to a forest home

Beloved family

Treasured friends

A sweet, stupid dog

And a cup of hot chocolate

Follow the footprints, see where they lead

They lead to pink tennis shoes and 

Mismatched outfits

Soft pink shawl

An old, good book

A worn out plush toy

Follow the footprints, see where they lead

They lead to emotion

They lead to memory

They lead to long, confused trains of thought

Follow the footprints, and now you see…

These footprints, my friend….

They lead to me

Sometimes I lay in bed to hide from any interaction

Unable to quiet my mind

I like to be overcome by distractions

From time to time

I listen to the household action

Faking illness is my favorite crime

Footsteps vary in style and mood

Each person has a pattern I’ve assigned

I can tell who will enter before they intrude

The pace of their steps show whether they’ll be kind

There’s advantage in knowing who’s there before they’ve been viewed

In this moment I wonder if anyone would recognize mine

I’ve been watching your footprints in the sand for so long.

I’ve seen you walk alone while I’m desperate to walk beside you.

I’ve seen your footsteps falter,

I’ve seen them stand still.

And though all that,

I’ve been 2 steps behind you.

You don’t walk alone anymore.

There’s another set of footprints entwined with yours.

A pair that keeps moving.

Falters with you.

Stands with you.

Helps you when you fall.

They’re not my footprints.

They’re the footprints of someone else.

I remain 2 steps behind you.

Following every step.

Afraid to run,

To catch up with you.

So, I fell behind.

My lone footprints as my only company.

Don’t look back,

You only ever look beside you anyway.

I’m falling behind.

It doesn’t matter.

Keep walking.

Walk with Them,

Until the sun burns out.

Until the tide washes away

Both sets of footprints.

I’ll walk away.