When I was seven I started writing about myself,

I’ve been on the look an identity ever since.

I learned my name and decided that it meant something.

I made assumptions.

there should be answers.

I need a place to exist,

i want to the world to acknowledge me,

or I’ll feel this small and temporary forever.

and I know I’m small and temporary,

and I won’t live forever.



I started walking when i couldn’t find where I began,

then called it home wherever I settled down.

I found I’m fluid when I couldn’t keep a certain shape,

I’m curved or crooked or broken,

whichever you prefer.


I study definitions to try to locate mine,

a sense of self I lost when I left my childhood behind.

There’s a child missing in me.

I’m trying to find the man,

but he’s not visible in how I think and act and am.


I wonder what you’d call me.

I think of the past and remember what you called me.

But now it’s me calling out,

There are no words.





I thought the only way to live an honest life was to be completely alone.

I tried to remove every influence,

Every idea that could trick my mind,

Make me believe in something comforting,

And strip meaning from life,

I watch people move in arbitrary directions,

Randomness dictate decisions,

And hopeless grasps for power,

I watch myself lean towards what I would reject,

Choices I would never make,

And wonder who it was.

How many versions of me are there?

Is there a single real one or are they all equally valid?

I can find what I like to imagine as me,

But I am not consistent.

The person who lets me down,

is also me.


There’s a guy I’ve seen consistently for 6 years. I don’t believe he lives anywhere and he has looked close to death since the first time I saw him riding a bike down a busy street, slaloming with the drunkenness of age and a life I can’t imagine. I spend half of my time questioning meaning, while he continues to live his life. I don’t assume to know what he thinks about, but from what little I can see of his life, it is sorted in a way I can’t achieve. He’s never asked for a handout, not from me or from anyone I’ve ever seen. He spends most of the day in an abandoned lot, set up with flowers all over the place. He might be social, but I haven’t seen it. He might sell the flowers, but I haven’t seen it. (I haven’t seen him eat or drink or sleep, either, but, presumably, he does all those things.) Six years is a long time to do anything. Maybe you’ve done something nearly every day for that long, I’m not sure I have. I imagine what it might be like to be him. To live in a way I understand. To have a goal and be satisfied doing it. To not care about a house or home. To not care about reaching some understanding of how the world works beyond how to survive in it. And to survive on your own terms as literally as possible. I don’t assume he feels any of this. I don’t know him. But he serves as a possible life that I’ve missed. One of simplicity and a calm. A satisfaction in stillness. I might never know what it’s like. I hold goals and a resistance to myself. I move and avoid.

I have a mirror,

in which everything I care about exists.

it reflects me back,

and there’s nothing beyond.

My eyes.

My face.

My hair.

My mouth.

My neck.

My thoughts on all those things,

and the world.

It’s all contained right there.

My whole life,

right there.

every thought,

right there.

my entire existence.


You’re in there too.

But you barely fit.

I’ve stuffed everything I can into one head.

Yet I mostly see myself.


I can’t tell if I’m writing poems or short stories anymore. The ideas I want to focus on are all so stupid. And that’s just to me, the person writing them. I wonder what it’s like to not self deprecate. Just reflexively. Easy as breathing or thinking (which appears to be difficult for some people). A light you can’t shut off, but instead of being hopeful and romantic, it’s persistent and frustrating. There is a light and it never goes out, but I wish it would Morrisey, I wish it would. Because my light is some distorted light. Traveled through too many panes of glass. Refracted to burn or blind. More damaging to my mind than darkness. But I can’t figure out how to shut it off and I fear what would happen to me if I did. What else wold be shut off in the process. My lovely sense of sarcasm? My cynicism? My anger? Because, even though these sound negative to most people they are part of what gives me my passion and love for things and people. I wouldn’t love so much if I didn’t hate just as much. Only I don’t think hate is a judgment. Simply a fact as well as a tool. Because anger is misused, but don’t blame anger. Anger is fuel. We have to learn how to put it in the correct reservoir.

I am a large collection of emotions and thoughts. There is a danger in eliminating too many of them without first understanding the consequences.



Disappointment waiting in the kitchen,
I’ve seen what happens to a big dream.
Your smile is fading day by day,
As I consider what comes next,
We both know the end is coming,
We can imagine the summer being over.

I can’t hold you any longer.
I know what I did when we started.
But I’m convinced there’s happiness.
If only we can find it.

I don’t love you at all.
No matter how much I force myself to live,
There’s never a future that makes this worth it.