Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“It feels like I’m thinning out my soul, turning once sturdy cider bark into bargain bin brown paper bags.”

You love me.

But your love,

It’s the same love

As the January Sun;

An abbreviated afternoon

Punctured with pockets

Of cumulonimbus skies.

Your kisses breed frostbite,

Coating every syllable

In a gelid timber.


But I found something,

Even if you are

Just passing through.

And it was enough

For me to latch onto,

Even if all I have ever held

Was merely a reflection;

I’ll reject reality

To keep living

In your light.

I exist to you

Only as dense air;

Slowing your time,

But you can’t, won’t stop.

All that remains

Are your refracted rays,

And the scatterings of

A cranberry glass heart.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics

It was a brief moment, when serendipity smiled upon me, but if that was all she could give, I’d rather have gotten nothing at all.. (part 2 of 5)

I want serendipity to smell

As my anguish ignites,

Its carnivorous flames

Feasting on my doubt.

The breeze is perfumed

With a sinister smog,

And even though it hurts,

This smoke is the only air;

And so I am left choking

On the ugly scent

Of a burning heart..

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“This may sound obvious to some, but you don’t have to say that you’re okay when you aren’t okay.”

Breathing in these embers, my esophagus melts like candle wax, and these things I need to get off my chest remain buried in my lungs. They fight for a release, so they worm their way through my veins. I can feel them crawling, a sick itch beneath my skin, sending my sense of touch into disarray. I need relief from the fire that is boiling in my blood, so I’ll treat my skin as bark, carving out chunks of crimson comfort..