Other Works & Writing
Everything is about something.
Ask me why I stayed and I can answer only this.
Delusion overtakes me with floating words in my head. Too beautiful was his slithery body, calculated, and controlled, and too intoxicating was his venom when he sunk manicured fangs into my neck. I stayed to die a slow, lovesick, and vicious death in the name of writing something beautiful. Fading away into a haze, I will go but this delusion will outlive me.
The tips of my fingers smell like your cologne, the same smell from your tweed jacket as you wrapped it over my shoulders protecting me from the viciousness of New York City night, and whispering in my ear that you never thought you'd ever get a chance to do that.
The tips of my fingers smell like your cologne, the same smell from your tweed jacket as you wrapped it over my shoulders protecting me from the viciousness of New York City night, and whispering in my ear that you never thought you'd ever get a chance to do that.
Let Them Tell You
A tiny world, oblivious to mankind, thrives in the shadows of twisted olive trees through a wide grove. Hidden in the woody shrubs, close to the dirt floor, the cicadas hide their faces, revealing only their voices—loud enough to erase the thoughts of the mind past anything more than simple.
"Listen," they whisper, "and what do you hear?"
Enticing curiosity about what the verdant branches, heavy with peace offerings, have witnessed beneath their canopies.
There lies a grave at the trunk of the largest tree, where faint sobs of a weeping mother can be heard when she comes to pray. A garden sable slides through the duff on the floor next to the rotting headstone, coiling up tightly to rest in the mid-afternoon sun. There's a clearing the size of a picnic blanket in the middle of the grove, and there, if you listen closely, you will hear the laughter and sincerity of a young couple making love for the first time in the spring ocean breeze. In the distance, the hearty laugh of friends, slightly intoxicated by the sun and a liter of peach wine, booms as they stumble through the knee-high brush.
Such diverse sonnets emerge from a million little lives, each one unique and full.
"Listen," they whisper, "and what do you hear?"
I hear only cicadas. Cicadas who, over centuries, have watched and heard the giants above them embrace the noise, learning to listen in hopes of finding what is good about life.
I Ended the Hunt
Tell me, what was it that caught your eye? Did you see me as naive, eager to please, especially for you? Did you think I would fit your vision—proper, elegant, intelligent, poised? Was it the way my ruby red lips stayed sealed, untouched by your poison, that made you double down your bet and then fold?
You hid behind the cigarette smoke and a Cheshire smile. I begged for you to come out but secrecy ripped the veil from my eyes and I watched you shrink down to the man you are.
A hunter, so proud of his aim, forgot to pull the trigger. He cursed the doe as she leapt from the brush, her eyes filled with disappointment and a sad, knowing smile. The chase will continue, and another will come—another perfect piece of china for your mantle, whispering sweet nothings, only to be ripped down by manicured claws and shattered. Pick up the pieces and start building your fantasy again, just another one to catch your eye.
The tips of my fingers smell like your cologne, the same smell from your tweed jacket as you wrapped it over my shoulders protecting me from the viciousness of New York City night, and whispering in my ear that you never thought you'd ever get a chance to do that.
The tips of my fingers smell like your cologne, the same smell from your tweed jacket as you wrapped it over my shoulders protecting me from the viciousness of New York City night, and whispering in my ear that you never thought you'd ever get a chance to do that.
The tips of my fingers smell like your cologne, the same smell from your tweed jacket as you wrapped it over my shoulders protecting me from the viciousness of New York City night, and whispering in my ear that you never thought you'd ever get a chance to do that.
when i die
when I die, whether in youth or age, bury me under some ripe willow tree in the lofty place of a meadow. somewhere that my soul would have loved when walking the earth.
so if my person should decide to return for the sake of curiosity, i will awake in the rich soil that is sweet with earthen scent.
i will feel the well-built trunk of the tree behind my back, safely holding me up.
i will look up and see the beads of leaves flowing to the symphony of the quiet wind.
in the distance will be the land that once was good, made good, for good, besmirched by humanity and its lust for their sin.
yet, then, i will have only one thought.
take me from the foot of this mighty oak with all its beauties and treasures, and put me back at the Feet of the willow’s Father. for i will see the whispering willow, and the soil, and the land, and the leaves and find that they, along with i, are destined only to glorify Him.
so, please
bury me under a willow
that I may return to my Home with no doubt or question that Earth has passed away and Heaven is Alive.
her
She made you want to give her the world.
In some generic brown, paper-wrapped box because anything more extravagant she would say she does not deserve it.
She was the type of woman who would accept the brown paper box, and adore it as much as if you had given her the whole world.
I will make sure that she receives all the world she needs to fly, and I will wrap it in that brown paper.
I would do that for her.
what’s your biggest regret in life?
telling someone I love him when I really didn’t.
time
Time does not care for you. It does not consider you or suffer by you. Time does not appraise your weakness and adjust. Like the unassuming, deadly serpent wages war beneath the hooves of the wild horse, Time wins the fight every time.
And it has fought me. And it continues. And it will not get by too easily.
For I will be conscious of Time, pay my respects, share with it good omens, and sacrifice to its compulsion, but it will be in tandem, as a team, using some of the power Time gives to make something of myself.
missing the boat
but is there ever a boat to miss anyway
noise
one gets used to all her friends called noise concerting louder, bolder, stronger to grasp at her attention.
yet she is deaf to the noise, as she looks in the window of the earth’s silence, for that is the loudest moment of them all.
the day the sky turned dark
Before the turn of the world
A Father sat and watched
His creation frolicking adorned and pearled
In love and protection, they were washed
But then came flesh masked in the vibrancy of a tree
Too tasty and too beautiful to pass
They knew they were found, they knew they were free
And upon the first bite, the sins were cast
The world kept turning but they found they were bare
In a garden unruined, yet too much to be desired
For wrath has it's beauty, the Father's great care
And now forever a burden of justification is required
The Father hung His head low and wept aloud
When He watched His bride give her body away
Knowing now one day a man would walk through the crowd
A Son willing to obey
All would be silent the day the sky went black
But a whisper, a cry, could be heard from the heavens
And the Father remembers the first day of the attack
The day the Son of the Father was assigned to our transgressions.
