Cinders

I wonder if the rain knows

about all my saddest days 

before it paints the ground 

with water that evades

the leftover embers 

that burn in the pit of my heart? 

Those coals are only kept alive 

by the frayed ends of a love 

I've yet to lay aside; 

never perfectly mended 

and never sound asleep.

Every time you walk by 

I resurrect memories of days 

that were better than these;

we smiled like children 

and promised more than we ought

in the sun-kissed snow 

and in the confines of silver trees. 

Now this chilly rain escapes my grasp

while a fire hazard brews 

in the depths of my chest. 

I just need a puddle 

big enough to swim in. 

The Title of this Poem is Used Three Times

What on God's green earth

makes you think it's okay 

for you to finally be a decent man 

when you were despicable with me? 

Your praises sound like rocks 

falling into an empty well, 

hollow and spent 

like every other word 

you ever spoke to me in love. 

You're the faulty clutch 

that has me stalled in the middle 

of a busy intersection 

scrambling for a running engine, 

but left to collide 

with cars on all sides 

as soon as the light turns green. 

And do you not remember 

the endless months 

that you dragged my heart around 

like an unwanted dog

stuck to your leash? 

I remember the green grass, 

the muddy fields, 

the concrete playground 

and every other place 

you brought me to. 

What on earth, 

makes you think it's okay 

to finally be a decent man, 

when you were only a hurtful boy 

with me? 

3:13

Oh to be the one

that heard you snoring in the night, 

to hear you sleep talking, 

your steady breathing, 

and your final hums and has. 

I would give everything 

to have been there at the right time

to see your eyes again, 

but you left me where I was, 

and waited until it was to late. 

Forever is a long time 

to go without you 

and in my selfishness I wish 

that you would've thought of me. 

Wailing by your bedside

with no voice of comfort, 

no warms hands, 

no life-filled words. 

Oh to be the one

that stayed the night and

saw the clock

at 3:13. 

Grown-Up Hide and Seek

a song 

For years I've been trying to see
exactly what you're looking at
and when your eyes shine
I try to find the road map.

Once upon a summer night
you told me that your heart was fine
I stared at you a while
and finally saw your crooked smile.

And I always tried to hold you
a little bit tighter
And I always tried to know you
a little bit better
And I always tried to find you
in all my favourite hiding places
but you were still trying to find me
in this game we play called grown-up hide and seek.

There's nothing like yesterday
is what you'd always say
when covering up your silliness
and awkward mistakes.

And I always tried to hold you 

a little bit tighter 

And I always tried to know you 

a little bit better

And I always tried to find you 

in all my favourite hiding places 

but you were still trying to find me 

in this game we play called grown-up hide and seek. 

The First To Say. . .

Let me be the first to say
that nothing about your eyes,
nothing about your laugh,
nothing about your presence,
is settling.
You push me into corners,
make me run, hide, and cry
for some kind of resolution
when you offer no apology
no remorse,
not even an acknowledgement of my existence.
I loved you,
with the most ardent and earnest love,
and I kept no record of your wrongs,
until you crushed me with your words,
crushed me with your two anxious hands,
and now,
months removed,
my bones are still broken,
my heart is still torn up,
and you walk free, just the same.
Let me be the first to say,
that if you could really understand these eyes,
they'd tell you that this is far from over.

Out Of Me

out of me
comes everything
that's filled my blood
with poison,
with toxins,
and now
with contrition
I speak as though
I've never wanted to sin,
and with fullness
I breathe a breath
that purifies my lungs,
flushes out my veins,
brings water to my eyes,
and buckles my knees.
out of me
comes everything
that I ever set out to be,
and now let it be
nothing.

Embers

You are the whispers
of inadequacy and doubt
that seep into my cerebrum
and rearrange every ordered emotion.
It's like stepping into a library
and ripping all the books from the shelves
and leaving me there
to clean up your mess.
I have a million and one ways
to put you in your place,
to shut up that gaping mouth
and silence you forever,
but the havoc your secrets bring
is too high a cost for your speechlessness.
I repeat
"you're not worth it, you're not worth it"
and pray that my civility
will evolve into scorching embers
that sit on your head.

Arteries

If I could fold you up
like a square piece of paper
and put you in my pocket,
and keep you there forever,
I would never miss you
never struggle against you
or lose you.
I could bend you
to my less-than-divine will
and tear you up
whenever I was unhappy
and I could have complete--
complete control.
I would possess the power
to drop you in the trash,
tear you to pieces,
or fold you up into an airplane
and send you on your way.
But no,
you could never be that bendable,
never be that dispensable,
never be that two-dimensional.
You must be essential
inhabiting my soul
in ways I can't predict or manipulate
rising up like my breath,
keeping time like my heart,
arteries filled with you,
unseen through my skin,
but necessary for my survival.

You're essential.

Daisies

I popped a tire,
on the way down
the train tracks,
that run in front of
the place my heart is home.
I was searching for you,
or at least some trace,
but I knew there was nothing;
no part of you there.
I ditched the bike
in the middle of a field,
and walked the rest of the way--
free as a sparrow,
heavy as stones.
I found a suitable tree,
that reminded me of you,
and nailed my poetry
to it's trunk.
I left you a message,
somewhere in the trees,
that you'll never find,
because though I go
to that place all alone,
I know you never will.

I picked some daisies,
and went home.

Disorder

I starve myself
of every word
that builds my bones
strong with deceit
until I can see
my skeleton
through thin skin.
I throw up
every empty praise
and every lie
ever said to me
without sincerity
to purge myself
of the vanity that
hugs my frame.
I will become
a shadow of
who you've built me to be,
in order to die
to the "me" that requires
your words to survive.
Whether you praise or you judge,
you are unnecessary to me;
there's only One,
who has the perfect words.

Amber

You have
amber irises,
like the little pendant
around my neck,
that you always asked about.
I have forgotten you,
dear friend, distant dream,
forever-ago love.
But when I see
your eyes,
easy, and familiar,
unsteady and wild,
I remember it all.
Holding your nervous hands,
kissing your rough cheek,
capturing your lofty promises,
and waiting, for you to leave.
See, I fought tooth and nail
to be the apple
of those amber irises,
but it just wasn't enough,
to keep you
from turning your gaze
elsewhere.

Goodbye.

Birdcage

Open up your chest 

to show me there's something

still beating in there. 

Behind your birdcage 

made of bones, 

has your lovebird 

died or flown free?

Did you clip it's wings, 

and stop it 

from singing? 

Because when we speak 

there's no words 

and when we run, 

there's no speed;

just silent glances, 

just stagnant motions, 

that mean nothing.

Your hands are cold, 

your eyes are empty, 

and your smile 

is dull. 

Where is your heart? 

Crux

Today I wear blue
like the sun wears it's light,
unable to be hidden,
and all over my face.
I'm tired
of pretending to be
any other colour
but pacific ocean,
night sky,
his eyes-- blue.
I'm tired, of giving yellow smiles
to people with their eyes closed,
and understating my heart
to ease the guilt you get
from breaking it.
I'm indigo,
with little stars in me,
that explode into super novas,
with galaxies in my chest,
and meteors in my mouth.
I'm the fifth colour
of the rainbow
painted in your skies;
the borderline,
between the warm and the cold.
I'm on the line.

I'm always right on the line.

Orange

She dreamt of him in hughes of colour that only seem to make sense when her eyes were closed. When she woke up, it was like he was swept away by the sunlight. She could try to hold on to him all she wanted, but she knew it was no use. He was familiar and warm, but unplaceable.

She filed him in the back of her mind and remained in mediocrity. She worked like everyone else, rode the bus like everyone else, and lived her life like everyone else. People passed in and out of her life constantly; nothing was ever the same way twice. She'd met plenty of men. Plenty decent, good-hearted, worthy men. But there was always something wrong. Something always felt wrong. She hadn't meant him yet. The one that would feel like an old friend, yet a new stranger. The one that would finally make sense in the daylight. He would no longer be a fragmented dream.

There was something about the way he was with her, when she was dreaming, that made her believe that she would meet him in the real world. Something about his words, and his movements mesmerized her. She could tell that he loved her. Unreachable and unknown as he may be, she knew that much.

And even if he wasn't real, even if they would never meet, she held hope in her heart that the feeling was real. She had hope that one day, she would feel the way she felt when she was dreaming. She could have the confidence to believe that someone, somewhere would be as familiar as the dreams she dreamt every night.

She believed it, with all of her might.

Green Button

I make up reasons
to dial his number,
to say that I'm sorry,
or just to say goodbye,
so I can justify
this stupid decision
to myself once I've hung up
and thought it through.
I'll claim good intentions,
when really,
I just wanted to feel
close, wanted, and loved again.
I have no good intentions,
just selfish wishes
to rewind the time
for a few minutes.
Truth is,
I don't want to go back,
I don't want to restart,
I just want to feel that way
one more time.
And there's nothing in the world
that can make that okay,
and nothing I can tell myself
to ease my conscience.
So before I pick up the phone
and press that Green button
I think of what I'm doing
and who I'm doing it to.

I put the phone on the cradle,
and step away.

Ask

I guess there's no point
in expecting to live a dream
when nothing ever really
comes close.
And I guess there's no point
in hoping for the best,
because hopes and expectations
always fall through.
But I tried my best,
to harness some courage
to see what I could see
in you.
I never accounted for
the fact that it is necessary
for you look for me
too.
I guess there's no point
in telling someone about yourself
if they never even ask
how you're doing.

I Conclude (For Now...)

I conclude, 

to try my damnedest 

to work this out 

on my own. 

Without even 

opening my mouth 

to ask you 

for help. 

You see, 

I'm such a coward

and a little self-concious, 

because losing you 

in any way 

would be devastating. 

I'm sorry. 

Summer Dreams

I had dreams
of catching bugs in jars
on weeknights, after work
and mapping stars
and telling each other their stories
while drinking cheap wine
because at least it's classier
than drinking cheap beer.
Dreams, of day trips
and late nights
writing delicate words
and catchy melodies
after watching Molly and the gang,
and nursing hand cramps
induced by video game controllers.
Dreams that were dreamt
with you in mind,
(obviously)
and now I can't bring myself
to fulfill them single handedly,
so I aimlessly search
for my dream four-leaf-clover
to bring me some hope
that things will turn around.
But for now all I dream
about are the things you do
without me,
because I have no courage
and no perfect words
to tell you that
I don't want to catch fireflies
with anyone else but you.

Make That 41

I've got a collection
of half-pages
maybe even 3-quarter-pages,
addressed to you.
I swear I must have 40 or more.
I start the same way,
with something funny,
hoping to get you smiling,
and then I start from the beginning.
I try to describe
what's been going on
and why I haven't told you before,
and what exactly my heart feels.
I try to be sweet,
I try to be poetic,
I try to say something
that won't sound ridiculous.
And it's when I get
to a certain point
that I read it all over,
judging every word,
erasing and rewriting,
trying to craft the perfect way
to say that

Who He Says I Am

I'm one of those people,
who thinks things through
and then thinks them again,
picking apart each word,
each motive behind each word,
along with every tone,
ups and downs in voices
to piece together some knowledge
about something that's likely
not even there.
I take that "based on nothing" knowledge
and stir it around in my little head,
imposing it on myself
like a doctor, writing a prescription
until it takes over.
And it's only when I realize
that this little seed has been planted
for no reason at all,
that I try to uproot it
to replace it with truth.
But it's like trying to reattach
a lock of hair, after its been cut;
there is no sure way of undoing it.
If only I realized
that I am who I am
totally aside from any one else's
words, thoughts, feelings, experiences,
and saw truth
in who He says I am.

I will long to see the truth,
in who He says I am.