Ahem, how should I say this without being self-deprecating? I’m waiting for my next bit of poem-writing creativity to strike, so in the meantime, here’s a little bit of nonsense…

I’ve been thinking about the generic resting faces of the generations as seen by me, a millennial, and being in a silly mood, I decided to put together what I believe to be the message that they give off.

Resting Boomer Face: Why aren’t you ruining your life exactly the same way I did to mine?

Resting Gen X face: Is my all-knowing face on? It better be on because I know things, in fact I know all the things, and everyone needs to understand this! I’m the new boss in town!

Resting Millenial Face: Is my poker face on? I hope it’s on because I don’t want anyone to catch on to how little I know and how generally confused I am.

Resting Gen Z Face: Y’all full of shit aren’t you? I’m going to understand the nuance of your bullshit in a bunch of years, won’t I? That’s aight, watch me do this dance tho

And there you have it, folks, much of humanity explained in a few mere sentences.

To my Love!

My mind,

The angry fool,

Still stuck unpuzzling you,

My heart can no longer wait!

Let these words burst out of me,

Like my soul’s desire to tear towards you,

To mix with yours and become one,

And it would if it were not for my being.

As if fed by the morsel,

It must remain content with your touch,

Your kisses.

Your love is a source of inspiration,

Your eyes are a source of healing,

Your lips parted are silent beacons,

Their call to me louder than a whole world,

Your hands reaching out to me,

Emanating love,

Slow the beat of my heart.

Dear lover of mine,

My gratitude deepens for you,

Each time our eyes meet,

And my mind must now follow my heart.

Writing poetry

Creating art, for me, is almost always an act of catharsis. Poetry is an interesting form of expression: when I am writing it, I am usually in a heightened state of lucidity.

A first step feels like all of my mental faculties are working simultaneously on extracting a lived experience.

A second step is more challenging: translation. Taking the language of memories, emotions, thoughts, sensations, et cetera, and finding words and phrases that validate them.

In that way, art (in this case, poetry), is like a vessel that contains more than just its author’s creativity, time, and literacy. It is like a vessel that contains a microcosmic view of the author’s particular experience of their world.

Unfortunately, poetry is not as readily accessible to an audience as, for example, a song, especially in the way that the author intended it to be received.

Insomuch as that may be the case, is it not a beauty of poetry that it elicits different interpretations from different people? All of whom are reading the same work, but each of whom connects with the poem as per their own lived experiences?

A Masculine Perspection

Your feminine enthralls me,

Draws me;

My masculine sees you as beauty pure,

Incapable of seeing anything else,

And why would it try?

What does it want, you ask?

And quite right,

For trouble often follows it closely,

I will tell you what this accursed says to me:

Liberate your eyes,

Let them caress her every dimension,

Envelope her in your arms,

Warmth, worldly and deep;

Ignite a fire so powerful,

She will want to fight for her world,

With a fierceness that slows time,

A light that can and will shine,

Brighter, hotter, and longer than yours.

Let her be the architect and you the builder,

And so the designs would be so grand.

It says to me:

With every glance,

You will understand better why it is,

You’re drawn and fixated,

Incapable of seeing anything less than a goddess,

Cursed nonetheless,

A curse that the masculine seeks,

To unravel,

To turn from chains and thorns,

Into sustenance and warmth,

Continuity and life,

Tenderness and sensuality.





Why, failed?

Look at me,

My dear friend,

Before you ask,

Make careful your observation,

Of what presents itself so obviously;

And obliviously,

My unriddling has its limits.

What do you call,

Someone who is doomed from the start?

A poet whose pen beats?

With ink bright red?

Who can only share his lived esotericities,

In phrase-twists and wordly ideas?

Language already half-cloaked,

Experiences always slightly out of reach?

But most outrageously laughable,

He still wants to share his broken prose,

A worldly venture,

My dear friend,

I am the failed poet.





Art can strive to remind us of the larger picture, to bring us out of the little boxes that we use to keep safe. Art should strive to remind us that we can choose to have beating hearts larger than life, that we are so much more and that we can do so much more. Each one of us carries a piece of humanity and of the Earth, each one of us has the potential to move humanity and the Earth. If a work of art does not intend to bring its audience back to these basics, it is not art.

Borderline Worlds

In how many worlds does your heart reside?
I will tell you about mine.

In one world my heart is old,
Yearning for richness in life,
Where the language discovers emotions unknown,
Where north, south, east, and west precariously balance,
and each with their own story.

In another world my heart is a fool,
Where east and west will not meet,
and I mediate,
As from them I had emerged,
yet each wishing to be chosen,
and I am left depriving both.

In my world my heart must be proud,
Because pride is the strength that defends,
The scales that balance the uneasy stories,
with the mediating fool,
Each with the desperate need,
for a better world.

Originally written in 2013
Reworked in 2015

Working Peace

slow and deep,
It is this that soothes.
your self,
It is this that readies.
Endure and accommodate,
You must,
It is this that allows its existence.
a warning if you don’t;
if you dare an act of self-relevance
it may disturb your focus,
Indeed and well,
but you will be weary
if not wary,
It is this that takes away what can’t be returned.

Only Will

I gave up, friend
It’s a long story
But I gave up
The worst part of it is
Losing the spring in my step
Losing the fun in my heart.
Sparking joy out of nothingness,
I don’t have that anymore

I wish it were a spell
It’s a long story
The story is irrelevant

Now all I have left is will
I can will myself to live
To run with the rats!

I can will myself to forget
The story, reason
More at ease with the inevitable
Everyday complicity

But will alone leaves one hollow
Like an empty husk
I know what it is I lost
I cannot will it
Will is all I have

Originally written in early 2014