A Match Will Have To Do

It may be arduous at times

finding the light in a world as despairing as ours

but I assure you my friend

that even in the darkest of corners

and the in the most desolate of silences

there will always be a glow

a whisper

to guide you away

from your solitary tribulation

and into the arms

of grace

and if you seek diligently

mercy will seek you

just the same

To Be Continued…

I’ve stayed awake all night writing letters that I’ll never sign

filling cup after cup with bitter coffee even though I never reach the bottom

before the fluid hurt gets cold, and loses its appeal

listening to 3 minutes of every song before skipping to the next

to avoid the bridge that I don’t know the lyrics to

never sitting down long enough to see the end of the film

I was watching just to procrastinate

I’ve only read half, maybe less, of just about every one of Bukowski’s books

and never have the heart to read until the last page

leaving unfinished poems strewn about the room from one corner to other

they are accompanied by cigarettes that saw 2 drags

before my lungs decided enough was enough

flowers far past the point of living that I had planted but never watered

they’re a melancholic sort of decoration that were given a purpose

but were never given a clear direction

and like us

I could bring all of these things to a close if I wanted to

for now, I think that this book in particular

is better left open

Slightly Sharper Much Less Sweet

His tongue is sharper and quicker

than any edge I have ever used

to lighten the mood

and he knows exactly where to cut the deepest

so that an intoxicating sort of resentment

pours from wounds so thin

I don’t even see them at first

cuts so deep rarely heal cleanly

but leave handsome scars

from one corner of my chest

to the other

and as ugly as the world may think they are

they remind me of him

every raised line is like a poignant remark

and every shallow crater another kiss goodbye

not too long and just bitter enough

to leave me alone in a wake of my own indignation

as I grope through the contents of our previous exchanges

like a blind man

looking through a drawer he’d never opened before

and when he returns I’ll still be looking

empty-handed, defeated

but I’ll stand up and laugh in his face anyway

as I straighten just enough to hold in front of him

my mock victory and he’ll say to me once more

let’s begin again

Hiding The Truth From Even Ourselves

Hey, how have you been?

(I’ve missed you)

I’ve been good.

(I’m a mess)

Yeah, It’s been awhile.

(I’ve thought about you everyday)

What are you doing these days?

(Tell me you haven’t moved on)

Oh, that’s great.


Me? Yeah, nothing serious though.

(No, not since you)

Yeah, it was good to see you too.

(Don’t Go)

Love Is The Word You Use When Nothing Else Makes Sense

I used to write love letters everyday to the same boy.

They were a little verbose but they were beautiful, to me anyway,

and held all of the words that I was always too afraid to say aloud.


I had become adept at articulating the feelings that consumed me

but the more he broke my heart, the less I forgave him,

and the less I wrote about love.


Now the word  sits bitterly in my mouth

and I write melancholy poems about stars and kids who don’t want to grow up.

They’re a little verbose, but they’re beautiful, to me anyway.



Don’t Trust What Your Doctor Tells You About Love

Whoever said “actions speak louder than words”

had never believed a lie,

so truly that it emptied their heart

and clouded their eyes.

They never saw the difference

between touch and emotions

because sentiment and sex

are entirely different notions

and when they’re confused, a volatile mix

that makes you’re head spin

and you’re stomach sick.