Monster of Mind

This monster of mine
will not get me alone
if i choose not to follow
while i still have the power to do so.
I will not allow it to turn my
ink stains into blood spills
or my potted plants into wildflowers.
I have known the fear
of movies played on blank screens
and refuse to see
everything that was never
meant to be there.

Action

You do not have to see to believe;
Many go their entire lives never
knowing what lies beneath the flesh.
The same is true to pain;
You do not have to see it
to know that it is there.
It can manifest in silence, hidden
in the dark, like the mind’s magic trick,
never stepping into the spotlight,
only controlling the costume changes
safely behind the stage curtains,
studied not beyond a name in the credits.

The Only Thing I Knew

I used to leave the window down on road trips
because I was scared of the silence
whenever the music quieted.
Scared of the runaway thoughts
hitchhiking along the highway
in my mind,
thumbs poised and ready
to jump at the first chance of an open door.
I was scared of the semi-trucks
looming over something so small,
so breakable,
when I could not hear them approaching.
I used to leave the window down on road trips
because I feared the quiet
might never leave.
And now that it’s gone,
I sometimes miss
knowing the only way to smother it,
is to make a sound.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Anxious Comfort

I’m screaming in the ocean,
letting the salt corrode the words
off my tongue,
and spiral into small bubbles
that leaves you with only the sound
of a faint whisper breaking the surface.
I breathe in with the intent
to fill the empty pockets that my lungs
were not strong enough
to give you the air you needed.
I tried to give you these words
but was muffled by the weight
of suffocating in the silence
that hugged me
when no one else could.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Letters

I left you a note
on the doorstep in the meadow
where I witnessed your first teardrop.
The day you plucked petals
off daisies
and swore to become stone
like the wall
at the base of the river. 

I left you a note
on the porch swing in the garden
where we shared our first drink
and you confessed
the way your insides were alive
beneath the concrete
you mixed
for the water to set around you.
The day you told me of the weight
pressing against the dams
you built around your heart,
and began writing your name
in bottle caps.

I left you a note
in the mail slot
at the rehabilitation center
where you spent six months
proving to yourself
that the addiction was not
protection;
a guard against your feelings
no matter how hard
you tried to force it to be.

I left you a note
in the Starbucks
on the street with no sign
where I witnessed you sober
for the first time since seventeen.
And you promised to god
that this was the goodbye
to watching your downfalls

I wrote you these notes
with a hand guided by hope
on the doorstep in the meadow
where I’m now forced to realize
the meaning behind those words.
And I wonder
if somewhere
you’re witnessing my first teardrop.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

Between the Highs

This poem is written in that space
floating away from sobriety
coming down from the high
of talking to my escape
and returning to the beast
that’s tried to drive me away.
Depression is the wedge
trying to get between me
and the only one strong enough
to push back my demons
when they outweigh
even the toughest parts of me.
This poem is written in that space
between hello and goodbye
when I’m struggling to exist
without you next to me.


Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!