Dearly Departed

It’s not you, it’s me.


And I know there’s that cliché,

but you have to understand:

nothing about me is cliché,

and I guess that was part of the problem,

but as always, I’m serious.

It’s not you, it’s me.


I was uncertain.


But the thing is,

I was so worried about losing you

that I tried to hold on tight.

I was so worried about not being enough

That I became too much.

It’s not your fault that you ended up drowning.



It’s not you, it’s me.

I am scared of being “this close”,

but terrified of being this close.



I have abandonment in my city streets,

the graffiti that people left on me


“Stay out”

“Run away”

“Don’t come any closer”


Rats make home in my veins, drains,

and my heart has trouble pumping them through.

My buildings are condemned

and my heart, the grid of broken pavement,

Don’t step on the cracks

Or you’ll break more than you understand


though the phrase is cliché

I am not.


It’s not you, it’s me.


Dear Sunday

Dear Sunday,

You, your stormy blue eyes.

I stand in the crowd, the darkness matted to my face like a mask, trying to peer through.

You’re pain and beauty, scars and brilliance, and the coming rain.

You had such self control, poised and ready to fly away. But you fell apart for hazel eyes that shone in the light of the radio, and drinks at the table by the window.

Somewhere along the way you got lost. You drowned yourself in sunny disposition and the smell of aftershave, and eventually, you realized that after all this time, you don’t know how to swim.

Imagine that. You, with the very ocean in your veins and salt within your skin, don’t know how to stay afloat.

It makes sense why you stayed in the shallows for so many years,


But I see you now. I remember who you used to be:

A cloudy day in the key of F. Your hair piled high on top of your head like a crown, your words were few and insightful, though not always important. Your laugh is either thunder or gentle showers, your mind a haven or a personal hell, and

that is your life-raft.

Fuel to the Fire

The words I’ve been chewing on are burning my mouth
and I hear you cry out
for equality, but somehow I doubt
that you realize what it really means,
because while you’re screaming for you,
I’m fearful for me.

Because, something has changed,
and slowly but surely, it’s silencing me,
but still I restrain
myself, and what I think
because for some reason now, I can’t disagree
and my opinion isn’t valid,
because my religion makes you mad, and
quite honestly,
it’s not fair.

It’s not fair that I
have to worry about losing my rights
because a few people spoke to hurt you, and I’m
sorry that it happened,
I am,
because we are all human, and
you did nothing to deserve it.
But did I?
Do you see me for more than what I am?
Because if not,
you’re no better than them.

And hear me out for a moment:
Is it possible that the hate toward you, you’ve reciprocated
and you don’t even know it?
God knows that I’m not saying that it’s only you,
but you’re the one who has chosen
to participate,
and since when did hate combat hate?

In a world in flames,
I keep hoping for water,
and that we’d stop naming names, and pointing fingers,
because for a time of progression,
we couldn’t be farther
from progress.
And maybe oppression is human nature,
but we’re making this harder
than it should be.
We have forgotten
that we are supposed to love
and we are supposed to be united.

In reality, we are far from it,
when you feel judged,
and I can’t pray in public.
While you say equality, I say peace,
but society thinks they mean two different things.
Brother, Sister
know that I love you,
so let’s take a step back from the hate
before we become it.




Is quite apparently

My most profound skill.

Many an occasion,

I have been told

that it’s a miracle

that I manage to keep anything alive.

If some thumbs are green,

then my sense of remembering must be a bright orange.


the schemes that have started strong.

But like Goliath,

they weakened.

This is such a scheme

that has fallen victim to my careless ways.

Starve no more,

hungry pages.

Must you taunt me,

OH cursor,

for my lack of wit?

For I am here;

whether or not my words are filling

is beside the point.

Beggars can’t be choosers,

though I find it uncanny how frequently

choosers beg.

Tuc-tuc Drivers and Parades

It was the kind of peace that only comes with printed words and soft pages
regardless of the insistent beeping in the background;
though what could possibly be so exciting?
This was a town where nothing happened for the majority of the time,
breaking trend only for a seemingly sporadic series of marches around town,
each one taking far too long considering there were only five streets north and east.
And oh how the banging aroused itself up and into the air
where it would hang like a cloud, for days at a time,
mixing sourly with the chirping of birds
and coming rain.
But we were in the rest of the year,
when the town sat dormant,
and the only sounds being the laughter of young children,
who for an unapparent reason,
had been unfortunate enough to escape the shackles of public education,
and the sound of an occasional overexcited tuc-tuc driver.