Poetry — i’ve developed a habit of doing things inefficiently primarily out of my interest of not letting my heart completely dissolve. my secretive laziness was eased when I read the words from a thinker from the East who said, “There is nothing more tragic than one who is well-adjusted to a sick…

Poetry — if all I am is protein for suffering, and i keep getting devoured by its pain, i am left with no choice but to make myself delicious. sitting at the open window, raindrops fall like a million fire-tipped arrows while I sip tea, and let the blind flight of time pass me by.

Poetry — The wind kicked up from the north, causing the back gate to fling open and slam shut over and over again. I step out to latch it, and it's cold in the shade and barely warm in the January sun. The garage door crawls up the ceiling, and my immediate…

Poetry — woke up again — which in itself is a miracle — but along with the early dawn came one of those lessons you don’t forget unless you’ve completely lost the plot. when you are trapped in an ice block of frozen disappointment, remember the old tonic for a troubled mind: “whatever is arising is a waveform passing through the body rather than a structure defining your person”

I’ve managed, for the most part, to keep my location undisclosed. But yesterday, it felt wise to pin my coordinates because I found myself in a sea of men who have nothing else to talk bout other than sales, sex, and stocks. While boiling oats, I let the steam enter my hands, and the first light of a cold, crisp December morning softly moves through the trees. I take a sip of my coffee and remember the men I read about who conversed over farming, fighting, and fishing and become further curious because I cannot squarely find myself in either archetype of the current or the previous.

Poetry — when the heart grows tired of the mind’s logic, which seems to be more and more artificial, do not expect a carpet ride into clouds of pleasure, but a vast land where a single tree remains curious as to what happened to the forest.

Poetry — very few of us have the bravery to be nothing, and so the cycle continues. we intuit that there is no arrival but we chomp and chomp toppling forward toward who knows what, hoping, even praying to find happiness and along the way, simultaneously pleasured and sorrowed by such small, little things. what if we stopped all that chasing and craving? this is the question that millions are willing to look away from to prolong a movie that masquerades as reality.

Poetry — all night, the cool heavy breeze tumbles through the window from an ancient past naked from the cloak of time. it’s no wonder why the language of sleep is fluid off my tongue. when I rise, the streams of fear have been damned, and I stand before another threshold that must be crossed if I care to let go of what has already been lost.

Poetry — don’t forget. but if you do, remember.