63 Days Since My Last Poem


I stopped walking
I stopped singing
I stopped bringing myself home
Always escaping
Always fleeing
Trying to make myself whole
Now left with consequences of body and soul
Oh how did I ever let myself go

Stopped thinking
Heart sinking into pity
Been too long since I last wrote of a fleeting feeling

Amazed at how easy it was to forget self affliction
Drug induced fictions of the mind satiate the soul temporarily
Yet leave me partially blind
Until I fall back into darkness for the umpteenth time

Before the Fall


To the point it becomes impossible to ignore this downward spiral
as if I was given a trial and chose to throw it
poor decisions clearly show it
of course I know it
I see this light marking the path of right
yet in the mirror I cower at the sight
of looking into the resultant shape from these regretful nights
as if I could forget those who already lost their life

Ben had a smile for the ages
he’d be my age today
but instead he’s passed away
three years, now in a grave

I owe it to him to live brave
I owe it to him to live
with my heart on my sleeve

Self hate and disdain too easy to grow
yet instead let me update my flow
shift my perspective away from the hate that I’ve come to know
and return to love

Photographer: María Victoria Heredia Reyes

The Game’s Not Over


Feeling defeated
yet, not yet on death’s bed
as if there is still time left to turn around
this lost plane heading straight for ground
gone missing is my sanity now
every other day flipping between joy and dismay
emotions too easily swayed from impulsive connections
yet right here are momentary reflections

It’s been too long since I wrote a new lesson
my latest lesson
as this open book confessing is most always
from me
for me
marking what I need to see
eyesight 20/20 while my heart beats blurry

Living blindly
one step from dying
time swept away without trying
as lonely nights grow colder
as my heart ages ever older
as if I could smolder passion for the sake of comfort
Pretending to be awake before my final slumber

Photographer: Greg Rakozy

A Polar Life

Passion gets dulled in attempts to maintain conformity
fear of unknown constrict the range of possibility

Inability to embrace a dynamic perspective
fails the ultimate lesson that growth does not end
until death’s frigid fingers grasp the final breath
how often do we bet on having tomorrow’s time
too often blind of the blurry line
between an external environment and an internal mind
deluding ourselves with the idea of separation
when instead, it’s vibration

Once forgotten, yet now in flow
now aware of the inseparability of yes and of no
sense made from difference,
we live as both actor and the show

Photographer: Joshua Earle

I was inspired to write this after watching the amazing movie, Dead Poet’s Society.

Synaptic Sequences

A concept stored in
electrical pathways from neuron to neuron
billions of cells continuously engaged
into the motions that lead these words
onto this page

Always processing patterns out of nothingness
identifying objects and trying to put a name on all of this
as if language could ever describe

How could I forget that nothing exists in persistence
when all this time, the truth has been change
from youth to old age
my self-constructed cage has merely been illusion
from a mind afraid to live a life of its choosing

Photographer: Parthiv Haldipur

I Want To Be a Writer

Luckily, it’s not very hard — I’m doing it right now! Each second passes with a rhythm of fingertips tapping these keys. Fingers wiggling as they transcribe one thought to the next, processing each one into a series of characters. In this moment, I am creating something new. Constructing a universe from the reaction of my mind on blank paper.

Who knows where these words will lead me? For one, I rarely do. I rarely know what the next line will be before completing the sentence I’m already on. Sure, sometimes I come up with lines out of sequence. Yet even then, it becomes an experiment in finding the link between two impactful components. How can I arrange these words such that it evokes emotion in my heart? What would reach me?

And then I answer. I speak from the perspective not of one wishing to be saved, but of the one who is saving. I write the advice that I’ve always been looking for. Because, it makes sense. I remember the most important thing: that all my hesitation to act has been caused from an illusion in how I view my own mind. It is because at times, I envision myself to be someone who wants to be a writer. Instead of simply being a writer. I unwittingly distance my cognitive perception of my own self through replacing I am a with I want to be a.

I dream of what it means to be a successful writer:

  • Publish books
  • Have consistent blog posts
  • Write every day
  • People who want signed books

Then I think of myself:

  • No books
  • Inconsistent writing posts
  • In the last 6 months, I’ve written long-form like this less than 15 times.
  • No books to sign

And at this point, I start producing the thought: I am not a writer. Once on the scene, this thought sparks a mental struggle which needs only but one distraction to be placated. In fact, I was just on Facebook for ~15 minutes since writing the last line. It’s uncomfortable for a mind to feel itself divided. So much so the next option is to just think of something else.

Often that something else is not writing! It’s browsing the internet, watching shows and movies, or playing video games. Then 6 months go by and bam! I’m no longer a writer. Through wanting to become a writer, I further push myself away from it. The solution instead, is to simply write. There is no want, there is no desire other than the impulse to write. To create a string of words able to convey something worth sharing. A melody of symbols. A moment both to reflect and to stumble across something new.


A boat in a bottle
Never let out at sea
Too busy worrying what she’d think
Instead of letting my own heart live free

You see, love is not an arrow shot at a target
Love is open seas — three-hundred-and-sixty degrees of rough choppy water
With the gentlest breeze

Choking on the salt of dried up tears
Of which time stole all the moisture
So much time spent unsure
Just a wish in a bottle, a boat that never touched water
Whose sails never felt the rush of a gust of wind at
Simply the sight of you

It’s not a carefully crafted message to never be seen
It’s spontaneous — dynamic!

Love is a shared boat

I tried to build the perfect boat to lead me to you
I followed every direction perfectly, didn’t break a single rule
Yet still I find myself crying these tears of solitude
Once more drinking on an empty deck

You say there’s more fish in the ocean
But I’m too scared to let my boat sink
Took me so long to realize I never made room for someone else
I looked for a savior without being one to myself

You see, let me not forget I am the captain of my own ship!
Shaken in the seas of good days and bad
Sailing through these waters, a soul sits at the helm
Seeing out into the world and deciding upon which direction to go
Which direction should I go?
Here or there, who really knows
All that matters is to feel how the ocean flows
Waves of emotions as we die and as we grow

Photographer: Barn Images

Side-note: If this piece reads a bit differently than previous poems, I’ll tell you why! I’ve recently been going to the Poetry Club at my school. The long-form rhyming that’s in most of my written work reads out-loud much differently than in my head. I received some awesome critique and feedback and wanted to apply it. This piece is part of my growth into being able to perform my work. It sounds much better spoken 🙂