The Next Chapter


The turning of a page.

August 11.

Clouded skies, (the wind seems angry.)

Lightning strikes.

A woman beckons her child to get in the car in the distance.


Thunder rolls, the breeze crashes like a wave.

Lungs caress the foreboding scent of rain.




The novel grips me in tension.

Gust of wind. 

(falling action)

The final chapter begins.

Thunder Clap.

Rain pounds furiously on the balcony. 


I anxiously await the climax.


Horizon painted in grim pastels,

     the fruit of knowledge lingers

foreshadows a fall from grace.

Contorted, the reason that we fell

     ironically it’s figure,

it comes underneath my gaze.

Its aura, nobody can dispel

     no oracle or thinker,

understands what hides my face.

Can either be understood—

as layer after layer is removed,

will the answers be worth the hell we go through?


fragments of thought,
shot into the universe
bounces off the surface.

an epiphany,
of insignificance
does the world merely

control what I think,
what I say,
what I feel,

do I have any control at all?
or do we spin,
violently on our axis

deeper and deeper,
grasping for meaning,
anything at all

to convince me that,
my thoughts and actions,
serve a purpose

and there is meaning,
and beauty,
in my existence.


"i do not have the time"
is such a shitty excuse
to not do what you love.

painting portraits that happen to rhyme
portraying me and you,
and the tragedies of love.

The Couple’s Couplets

Sobering rush of the midnight breeze,

hits her face, she falls to her knees.

Tears patter against the pavement,

poison in her blood for entertainment.

While he stares at the scene with a blank expression,

wondering if there is a lesson:

to be learned from this pitiful display,

while they go back and drink the night away.

the kiss of death

I’m not scared of dying, 

I already have, 

Life is spent weeping and crying, 

suffering till our time has passed. 

Death is not a fearful prospect, 

it’s more like a reward for putting up with living. 

Night Mourning

Don’t make me shout,

     to the moon and stars.

That echoes loud,

     reverberates off cars.

A story of failure,

     the funeral’s eulogy,

in which our love’s affair,

     does to you not what it does to me.

And I grudge the story’s ending.

His moon does to him as the tide,

reels him in, then pushes him away.

The Deterioration

In all death there is beauty,

    for life there must be death,

life is the reapers duty.

love deteriorated before my eyes ,

     and I can’t find anything beautiful,

in that kind of demise.

I pulled your hand to my heart, squeezed and said “I love you”,

and it was like clenching my teeth and pulling a fucking trigger.


there is a growth, 

growing and festering, 

torturing, agonizing

nagging and pestering. 

that I just can’t shake, 

it is under my skin, 

it’s the final battle, 

In a war I won’t win. 

And I want more than ever, 

just to cut it out, 

to stop the venom, 

that spews from it’s mouth. 

It’s tongue is cloaked in honey, 

raising hopes and expectations, 

That I’ll never come to meet, 

No matter how badly I want them to. 

But I don’t know why, 

I cannot remove it. 

I try and I try, 

I just can’t seem to do it. 

So now it’s to late, 

And I must accept,

into my heart and brain, 

It has successfully crept. 

So even if I did, 

cut it out in due time, 

it would continue to fester, 

Inside of my mind. 

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