Written in a cemetery getting scared by my own ghost
I don’t love this piece to be honest, but you might. I am trying to be true to the past versions of myself that wrote these and make amends for not sharing them when I should have.
Only two and half years late posting this. How’s that for time management?
It’s not accurate. It’s not fair. It’s not honest. It’s just how I feel.
In a moralizing piece, it felt like I needed to do something both selfish and mildly embarrassing.
I don’t love sharing romantic poems openly. It makes me uncomfortable. But it’s a big thing in my poetry community and sometimes it just feels right.
What a world we live in…
Last workshop poem. Something something enlightenment something.
Another workshop poem. An unhealthy obsession with cracks.
The product of a poetry workshop. Complicating the simple.
This is definitely the most inspired I’ve ever been.
It’s okay. I think that’s the thing to remember about shortcomings. They’re part of it.
A commissioned piece by the WFU Faith Coordinating Center addressing the stigma between religious groups and HIV+ and queer individuals.
Y’all steer clear of the bedeviled coroner
Does this one make sense?
Also, I apologize for not posting. I will begin again and schedule all the poems that haven’t been uploaded over the next few weeks.
But Why Is a Brick Wall So Beautiful
There exists a wall between actions and personhood. Actions can be judged, picked apart, done away with, condemned, exalted. People cannot.
One of my favorite poems I’ve written. It’s meant to be heard (hence some of the asides and me asking the listener to close their eyes at one point) but I hope you can enjoy it all the same.
It’s okay to let yourself be a little hopeless sometimes. This poem was almost called “The Poison of Dreams”…maybe for once you deserve a good night’s sleep?
I wrote this in frustration and it feels important to give two disclaimers. 1. No matter how good it feels to let an emotion run rampant in a poem, in all things practical grace is required. I am not an angry person. There is no judgement without extreme nuance. 2. Even when I try and write a poem intentionally directed at someone or something else…more often than not, when I read it back I always end up speaking to myself.
I like art because it’s myopic. I like strangers because their view of me is limited. Whether it’s all art or it’s all just up to interpretation, it’s a great way to hide blemishes.
Miracles make the mad men sane
While tragedies make the well-adjusted grin
To live for more is the sane one’s sin