Day Dreamer

Oh how I’d like to be the sunrise

To a world that darkness conceived

Raise me up, allow me to shine

Is radiance a luxury, fit for a king?

Oh how I’d like to be the flower

In these barren desert scenes

An exhibition, surprising colors

Perfectly fragile, a lavender day dream.

I guess, however, this stirring in my soul

Could be the gleam in a proud mans eye

Or the scraps in a beggars mouth

Paint my portrait with a lovers brush,

Get lost in the forest, and display it proud.

The Desert

I picked up fragments of
Broken glass in the morning sun,
Tried to convince myself that
The vultures circling our heads
Were a blessing, not an omen, and
You weren’t dead, you were just saving strength

I was filled up on only memories,
Warm lemonade and
Wilted rose petals from the back seat
Tomorrow’s hope replaced by yesterday’s wreck
A fire started in the desert heat
And blown out in a frozen hurricane

I was so thirsty
I almost swallowed my regret
I looked for respite in the foliage
But trees don’t forgive
Rocks don’t forget
And the snakes stopped smiling days ago

I apologized for everything
As I left your body in the car
I walked until I couldn’t anymore
I wanted to scream your legacy from the mountains
But who was I to keep your memory
Who was I to sing your eulogy

So I sat down
And I let the desert take us both

To Sleep

It’s 3:56 am, the rain hits the walls like a drum line battery and

Feelings of loss and abandonment

Pour into my mind like

Gasoline into my broken down sedan

This Friday night found me

Reading Bukowski under red and green warehouse lights

Christmas music in my right ear

The drone of machinery in my left

Bukowski would’ve hated me and my friends

But this month he’s spoken to me more than my friends have

And it makes me wonder if he ever had friends like mine

And if he had ever left his friends like me

At first I thought I was sad because I lost a girl

Then I thought it was the depression

Then I blamed it on my bad attitude

Now I think I just need some sleep

But I’m not gonna sleep until next year

Not really


We find our respite in the forests of the ones who got away

We live in houses made of trees

Who didn’t have a say

We find our respite in the forests

Of the ones who got away

We climb upon the boulders

That the woeful mountains lost

They’ve been here for forever

And they’ll remain here, til they’re not

We drift along the rivers

Who escaped from mighty seas

From nothing, they have conquered

But they’ll never quite be free

We gaze into the stars

Who are always on display

In the blackness they cannot disguise

Their brilliant, shining rays

The companions nature gives us

Are all mightier than we

We share the same sad stories

And connected, we’ll always be

Writers Block

This painting is going up on my own mantle piece.

It’s now my life’s goal to paint a self portrait of a humble man who achieved all of his dreams

And to write an autobiography of a man who chased his demons and overtook them

Not many could find beauty in the torn up canvas I have to work with

This painting is going up on my own mantle piece

I hope my visitors are polite

And I can’t tell the future but I hope my book

will be 500 pages packed with action

Some days it feels like 100 is the best I can do

Writers block can cut a good story short

God I hope I can wrap it up naturally

Don’t let me cut it short


It’s a hedonist fever dream.”

Its success is in failure and its pleasure is in pain

It’s pulling at the heart strings, giving birth to dissonance 

It’s raising you higher than the clouds, people still look down on you

It’s completion. It is creation. 

It’s simplicity

It’s a hedonist fever dream

It’s a fleeting flash of hope that pulls you out of the dark and plunges you into numbness

It’s the reason that you and I are on two different planes of reality and yet, we agree on everything

It’s falling for the sake of falling

We don’t think about getting up yet