Everything we romanticize doesn’t exist as we imagine it.

Our world is full of deceptive beauty that our bodies see with the flesh of our skin

while our souls,

blind and mute inside us,

torment us into reaching through and feeling the beauty beyond the craft of our limited imaginations.

But we can’t quite humanely grasp it

so we settle for less,

kept with a quiet,

lingering voice in the back of our heads.

This isn’t it.



Cautious Heart

Written March 19, 2018


I can’t believe I let you convince me to hand you

My heart

Only to have you nurture it

To tear it in half and

Drop it on the ground behind you

As you walked away

As soon as my heart

Finally healed

A year later…

I held it out

Ready to feel loved again

But instead

It was taken

Quickly from my open hands

And strangled with infatuation

And left barely beating

Because what can stand to be broken


Will this cycle persist

And will I be strong enough to

Get through this again

Right after I had just

Started to trust again

A cautious heart

Taken advantage of again

Tends to take longer

Each time to



A soft hum warmed her ears as she lay silently again in a new world full of life yet to be explored. Mummers became clearer and blurry shapes hinted at what new life would hold. A familiar voice, but new touch soothed her crying and she became molded into her mothers arms for the first time. What she would not understand was the instant, natural connection that held the bond between the two. It would take years of life and bearing a child of her own to understand the depth of the miracle and blessing of love implanted in the promise of an innate relationship. The gravity of the chance to take responsibility for a soul would give her tranquility.

As she would grow up under a roof of patience and unconditional love, her heart grew even the more. Philosophy filled her mind and passion filled her heart for the beauty of what life could hold. A blessing of life only influenced her to give the same to someone else. A generation would be born under the same influence of love. A first, second, third, and fourth life brought under the pain and protection of nine months. An inseparable bond of devotion only to finally release into the world with a hope and responsibility of giving them each a life of beauty.

Reality exceeded expectation and the joy of watching new souls find their way through changing the world overwhelmed her heart. Days consisted of laughing and dancing in the sun of a beautiful home. Long summer nights with swimming and sunsets eased the other burdens of the world. And peace lasted as long as God stood at the center. His blessings poured over in more ways than one and the moments full of doubt only proved His grace the bolder. Confidence ensued in each of their hearts and with locked hands they stayed near in love for each other. A mother’s love endured in the passion of what life had brought her. A twice as heavy heart for each of those she loved and a twice as light joy for each of their successes. Every battle fought to win or lose only strengthened her oath to each.

And now she can rest knowing that her work moved souls to pass down their hearts to another generation full of light and discipline. For only a job of a mother could insist on unconditional love and blessing in more ways than one. Never fleeting from the responsibility of what she had once received, she moved with grace and diligence.

And what she used to see as beauty within her world, looked back at her with the same eyes and proclaimed that nothing it held was as beautiful as what she had created for it to hold just the same.

Green Tea and Goodnight Moons

It was the feeling she got when he asked her for a cup of green tea each time he made one for himself. The answer was always a kind no, but the sentiment remained each time. Three times a day, three minutes a day, of waiting by the microwave to heat up a mug of water to soothe his throat. She never knew she would miss the same lingering question each day as they sat by the window that overlooked their garden. Now a half used pack of green tea bags remained to never be used except on the days when she misses him the most. She wonders if she will have to ever buy more, but she hopes she would never have to live that long without him.

The feeling poured into the summer nights they spent on the swing he made her outside on their back porch. The nights when the sun took forever to set. They didn’t mind. It only gave them more time to exchange words and more time to let her listen to his voice as they pointed to the birds that lived in their garden. They would wait for the moon like they always had and stay silent in the presence of each other until their third presence joined. He was always the first to whisper goodnight no matter how the moon changed. She smiled back and whispered the same to the same moon. They lived in innocence with the bliss of the day and the indulgence of the setting sun. Now she doesn’t sleep. A tradition interrupted, and now a sad moon is left hung in the sky without its third part present. She still dreams his company, but not too often for the fear of waking up in sick realization. There is nothing blissful about lonely mornings or indulging about enduring nights.

Soul Stained Wounds

We lick our wounds with such distaste for ourselves, still not yet knowing what caused the formation of the scars. When we see the bruised cuts left behind from the work of other, we allow ourselves to believe we are responsible for the marks left on our souls. For we permit our minds and hearts to attach between the space between and grow fond of the idea that someone else would care enough to come close enough to bruise our skin in a way that would haunt us for a lifetime after. What we do not realize, though, is the reality of living every day with a reminder of someone else who left clean from worry. Our minds bash against the temple of thought and logic while our hearts scream out for passion and hatred for only what it can see inside our bodies. Logic can’t exist in the dark space that holds our souls so we tend to believe whatever we tell ourselves and never rely on the fact of the physical world outside the realm of our imaginations. Our eyes connect to our minds while touch connects to our souls. Does this mean that we are better off blind to not see what scars were left, but only to feel the pain that lingers. Or better to be numb to agony and understand that a wound needs care. For both combined would result in tragedy beyond what one could handle by themselves. But we are left to figure out the balance ourselves, nevertheless, and continue up a fight wearing what only the world could see as a personal battle, even though they inflicted every one of the wounds on our bodies and left us to believe it was our fault for starting a war.

A Conversation with Silence

A conversation with silence. A colloquy with reticence. Tinted wisdom seeps through the humid air in the dusk room and through his parted lips. Words echoed against untouched space and repetition burned his skin. He sat, unmoved, however, and took the affliction valorously with his spine curved over his imperfect torso, filled with imaginary aliment to promise his dying body imagined energy. His dark hair had no movement to it because although he spent most of his time at the bottom of his tub, it never got washed. The oil residing on his exposed skin only made the fire touching him burn more.

He sat in stillness for so long that his bones began to grow together and his eyes dried to represent stone. What no one would notice was that inside his statue, his mind raced a war against the silence around him. It slowly became aware to his soul that he didn’t know where he was. The place he once understood to represent refuge became undistinguished to his conscience. He sat unmoved because one breath would force him to accept that body he hid in was his and that his life had come to socializing with silence. Reverence only lasted as long as his mind could hold its breath, before it started to spill and overflow. Silence only had so much capacity that his reflections filled the space until it burst at the seems, leaving no room for movement. Not even a breath could fit in the tight air that held silence.

Silenced conversations are ignorant to the fact that its counter has something to claim. Its identity suppresses him while surrounded and his chin raises slightly to allow subtle breaths. A friend better than death and an enemy worse than life, silence persists.

The shadows against the white washed walls moved leisurely and he placed himself in the mind of the one thing he could see that never took up space. It was disburdened from anything but what stood between itself and the light. It was hidden from veracity all its life. How sad, he thought, to exist with restriction to what was held in the light. Bliss of ignorance came with a heavy price. But as he sat, restrained by consuming silence, he found noise breaking open the seams of his closed room. He blinked and his neck turned stiffly to notice shadows that belonged to noise under the crack in his door. Air was allowed into his lungs as the air shifted to compensate the movement that traveled and broke silence. All it took were mummers of his friends on the other side of the door to break the chains that held him in his silence. A once lonely space started to fill with the hope that a conversation with reticence was no longer holding him in its stare. His movement brought the springs under his mattress to squeak and silence was stabbed again. Repetitious thoughts turned into continuous sounds that defeated the quiet.

Distraction proved its authority and as his reality caught up, he became aware of the door’s vibration and the sound that followed. His voice still gathering, he opened the door to witness three worried sets of eyes looking directly at his dull eyes starting to find moisture.

Vowel Poems


Scars that always last

Brand art a cast away

That grasps fast and

Angst attach.



She entered her cell

Helpless. Her eyes settled, free,

Except the hell fence held her

Ever perfect.



His lips kill this kiss,

I find him lying within his sin.

I wish I hid this pill

In his dying mind.




Lost boys only wore gold crowns

On top worn locks;

Wounds not to stop works

Of glory.



Lungs murmur ugly truths.

Cut unjust dusk,

Numb suns sung


Broken Crown

The mirror shows not hypocrisy, sin, values, nor weaknesses.

You open your body to regurgitate lies that give you glory

But let yourself see who you truly are and not who you pretend to be.

Because broken crowns only fit broken people. You are not worthy enough of anything more than what you can give yourself; that is a flawed perspective of grace.

What does grace mean if you are worthy of it. You’ll only continue to lie to yourself just to put at ease your restless, wandering soul.

The pressure you take on from being a chosen one will blind your discernment and feed your fleshed temptations.

The choice seems easy when you choose to give in. Your tendencies gravitate towards a simple way out and you become consigned to darkness without a hand to hold.

With no simplicity, we have made our choice to never wear your broken crown even though we might crawl on our bellies in graceless twilight. But we will receive a unbroken crown for our humbled choices.

Because what you don’t understand is that even though darkness is ugly, your pride is hideous. We are better off admitting to our faults and accepting unearned grace than pretending that we have earned anything.


You must become utterly broken and humbled to realize how worthless you are and how you are no better than anyone else. It is better not to be blind to this fact; the choices we make to believe or not to believe, to act or not to act will have heavy impacts on us forever. It would be cruel to have to make these choices under clouded judgement.

As for now, how dare you speak of grace when you have not experienced the overwhelming comfort of it. Remove the veil you are wearing and let yourself be vulnerable and humbled so that you can be risen and glorified because of it.


Under the Surface

Their crowns on top their heads lifted their chins and relaxed their shoulders back to give spectators a false sense of who they really were.

Gold only covered surface level regality; their minds were bound by a heavy weight adorned with jewels that their lovely kingdom praised as power.

People were praising with clouded judgement from a false sense of importance every hypocritic leader had in common.

Who are they to give their respect to and put blind trust into those who only seek spurious adoration.

A pattern that has lasted since the beginning of time. People made to worship, but with what limits do they willingly give away their god given power to worship.

When will they realize that there lies power and respect in delving into motives of those who request worship with nothing to back their claims.

They are all then doomed to continue a virulent way of living without noticing they have the power to question authority when it’s wrong.

Under the surface level of the gold they own and the title they hold and the color of their skin, there lies something similar in each human being that will always be clouded by insignificant treasures each of them tries to hoard for themselves to give them a false sense of power and authority contrary to how wisdom backs its own claims of respect.

Lost Boy

He hadn’t noticed it until then; that what he thought was a law of science had broken previous proofs. It didn’t worry him, but only intrigued him to experiment with the possibility of a missing shadow and how his could have been stolen. His candle light flickered behind him and yet no traces of himself showed on the white wall in front of him. Dancing around the room, arms floating and feet jumping only planted worry deep in his chest. He came to a halt, heaving air in and out of his lungs. The only thought that stained inside of him was the question of his existence. Had he become a ghost in his own body, unable to interact with his surroundings or could there be an explanation as to why no shadow was cast. He felt lost.

He fell back onto his large bed and his small figure balanced on the edge of the chest at the foot of his bed and the quilt that covered his mattress. Gazing up at the ceiling, he noticed something out of the ordinary. A dark figure was staring back at him with the same posture as he. But it was not his. A foreign, broken shadow took place against his ceiling fan. Startled, the boy leapt from his bed and so did the shadow, finding a more comfortable position against the clean wall. Silence took over both figures, both shocked to be able to recognize each other’s presence.

“Well, there you are!” another boy exclaimed from the now open window in the corner. Both the little boy and the shadow leapt and when the boy looked back at the shadow, it had disappeared. The other boy, with long hair that grazed his eyes and feathers to accent his locks, leapt contradictory to gravity’s laws like he was flying and caught his own shadow in one move. The boy watched in awe, unnoticed. Once his shadow was in tight grip, the strange boy became aware he was being watched.

“Have you lost your shadow?” His words rang in the little boy’s ears and all he could afford to do was swallow rigidly and nod once before he felt the life inside of him drain and he fell back onto the bed, eyes begging to be saved. No empathy was shown against the stranger’s eyes and the last thing he heard was his missing shadow screaming from underneath him.