Writing Without Words

without words

How do I begin to write poetry, when I’m far from the brink of despair?

Do I string words like lights at Christmas time, wrapping them across my body and around my neck,

until I choke out some semblance of meaning?

or should I sit

and think

and wait

pondering until genius finds me, then tears me apart

How hard should I try to pluck phrases from trees?

out of reach,

or only as far as one can imagine

I think I can.

tugging branches through thin air, until I’ve scattered enough letters

to articulate a coherent expression

I still don’t understand.

How high or drunk or crossed in mind must one be,

to form some-sound-thing from nothing?

I’d let every sad thought consume me and embrace the pain if I could.


But I can’t escape the torture,

craving release through words.

Originally featured in The Creative Cafe, a Medium publication

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Tell Me Why I Can’t Commit


i don’t write poems, i disrupt prose


when i must choose to stay or to leave,

facing a future of forevers with you —

not only you,

but also this place, this feeling,

this terror.

scared of commitment

I struggle to decide between now and later,

because how can I keep a promise I don’t know I’m making?

What if things change,

but we stay the same?




I am afraid to commit, for existence is an abyss of unknowns.

Originally featured in The Creative Cafe, a Medium publication

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First Regrets

first regrets

I was young.
We were dumb.
That’s usually how the story unfolds.

In our case,
you were new to me.
And in a way, I was new to you,
we were lonely and craving each other.
Side by side bound, not by love or attraction, but
because together we could, and because no one else would.

We watched the sun set from the side of a roof,
standing, uncomfortable,
when it happened:
on the roof.
in the grass.
again and again.

Moments fade, leaving messy hair and the bitter taste of religion.
First we kissed, then we coupled.
Unsure how it happened,
obligation made it hard to say no.
Though I wish I’d known,
a kiss is not a commitment,

and morality is not a silken bond between the two.

For days, we continued,
again and again.
Without good reason to leave,
though I had little desire to stay;

I was stuck, until I saw no need to explain.
We were destined to end as we’d started.

no way to reconcile
the connection ruined
by forsaken first regrets:
a chapter left unfinished,
on haste and sloppy firsts

Originally featured in Poetry Under Cover, a Medium publication

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Joy Ride

Joy Ride

moist transparence;
heat dissolves fog
letting life leak in
while you seek out

pebbled beads
trailing wet,
two drops morph into one

the never-ending flow
of one joining another,

breeze flows through the cracks
in our space,
knotting loose tendrils
around hinged joints

a glance reveals,
your arm on the frame.
rest your eyes
as we ride —
through the storm.

Originally featured in The Creative Cafe, a Medium publication

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