Home

Home.

Down the road, across the universe,

my body goes, and I stay.

My heart aches to belong here.

It urges my lust for nostalgia.

But The nuance of this notion,

lacks the lustre it once had.

For me, all that glitters is gone.

The silver lining, has faded.

Why would I yearn for such an obvious detriment?

Why do I make my bed in a place I wish not to lay?

I always thought this was my home.

But I know that home isn’t here or there.

Home is where you make it.

It’s the place you became the person you were meant to be.

It’s not the echo against walls closing in on you.

It’s not the place where you bury yourself in a crowd of a thousand dirty faces.

This place, I’ve called home,

Only tightens my grip on the coat tails of the past.

It steps on the toes of my future.

It laughs in the face of hope.

That’s just it.

Home is not a place at all.

It’s a feeling.

Home is inside of us.

And I’ve always looked for it in the wrong places.

I’ve always Looked behind to find nothing but shadows of doubt.

It’s time I look ahead.

It’s time to find my place, my home.

I will find it,

And that’s where I’ll always be.

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Liquid Romance

Liquid romance.

Fluid, in nature.

Deplorable, in hindsight.

How many times will I give way

To the relentless waves

Of these half empty oceans I dive into?

Head first.

I never even test the waters,

I just dive Right in,

And let the undertow take me.

…From Here On Out 

originally a poem I wrote and turned into a song.  I wrote it after seeing the news about the last Vegas shooting.

Everything’s eventual,

it’s really quite a shame,

that what happens now,

from here on out,

it’ll always be the same.

And everything’s perpetual,

a never ending game.

Well, you chew it up,

And you spit it out,

it’ll always be the same


Tell me why?

Tell me why,

all the up-swings went under.

Tell me when?

Tell me when-

we got stuck on for better-

or for worse,

or for worse.

Tell me, I can’t remember

all the lasts,

and the firsts,

tell me when we came up.


Cause it’s all down hill from here on out.

Cause it’s all down hill forever now.

Yes it’s all down hill ’till we come around.

Yes it’s all down hill from here.


Everything is gradual,

like time is oh so slow.

Just shut your eyes,

and hang around,

you’ll be gone before you know.

And everything’s irrational,

like never seen before.

But we’ll never know,

So we’ll cast a stone-

there will always be a war.


Tell me why?

Tell me why-

are the walls getting thinner?

Tell me when?

Tell me when-

the world burned to a cinder.

Tell me now?

Tell me how?

The fire still lingers-

Over me, over you

But it’s all we know.


Cause it’s all down hill from here on out.

Cause it’s all down hill forever now.

Yes it’s all down hill ’till we come around.

Yes it’s all down hill from here.


Ordinary Desires

She sat there,

Staring through the smoke of her cigarette.

And she thinks,

I loathe you.

I love you.

Don’t ever come back.

Please come home.

A painful soliloquy she recites.

An arduous cycle to fall into.

How cynical,

To want to be wanted this way.

To keep lighting a flame already smothered.

To breathe warm air onto cold,

hand-me-down embers.

How vain and trivial.

How unusual,

But pivotal.

She needs this.

This vicious cycle,

That solemn recital,

A dance she’s learned over and over.

But she struggles,

With this second hand choreography.

Dancing from do to don’t,

from praise to blame.

Second guessing a second guess.

one day she’ll figure it out.

She’ll figure out every step, turn, and pause.

In time, she will stop holding onto missteps she already took.

She’ll focus on the steps ahead.

At the next recital, she won’t dance between do and don’t-

Loathe or love, 

step or pause.

This was just practice. 

Turning Over 

I’ve always let the light chase me,

And I’ve always let darkness take me,

Hoping that the light will soon catch up,

that I’ll stop and it’ll pass right through me,

to lead me through the dark of night.

It’s been so long since the light graced this black and white congregation.

A long while since it kissed the faces I’ve buried here.

But here I am.

A bone yard, a cemetery,

a ghost town.

An empty person, full of old bones.

Old skeletons.

Lifelessness besieges me.

Life, beseeches me.

It urges me,

To transcend this phobia, the darkness.

And let life light me like it once did.

There is nothing to fear.

I can’t keep living like yesterday was my last,

I’ll live like today is.

So I’ll bury this face,

In the boneyard

One last time,

and I’ll choose to live-

to follow the light all the way back.

I’ll transform this ghost town into a triumphant city,

And I’ll only come back here to visit memories.

The boneyard, that is.

31, October

31,october.

A day to celebrate those who already wear masks.

Although these faces speak more to themselves today,

than the smiles they depict

every other.

Today, they wear their monsters and demons on the outside,

on their sleeves.

Not a person within a character,

But a character within a person.

And why they chose such attire?

A choice that came from within-

To give the world what it wants,

or a symbol of what they favour.

On this day, the 31st of October,

they don’t have to be but a demon 

behind a fraudulent face.

Today, they can let it all hang out,

give the world what they want

And just smile, within. 

Whole Together

Pierce me again,

With those eyes like arrows.

I love the way they stab me,

straight through my heart,

just like the first time.

That very first time I was split in half.

The first time my life was someone else’s too.

And how I long for this look again.

How I yearn for the tension

that pulled us together.

Without it,

my life is my own.

And I am still whole.

I am still here-

Full,

but not complete.

Left with but a hole in my bleeding heart.

So it bleeds on,

a vacant room inside my soul.

And I have tried to fill it with another…

Another set of Bright eyes

to sink to blank stares.

Another youthful friendship

to age too quickly.

It would seem this room belongs to one,

and no other.

It would seem this heart still bleeds for old arrows,

these eyes long to be seen again,

This Room wants to be full again.

And it could be ours once more,

Full,

And complete.

So I can be half,

And we can be whole,

together.

More Than Houses 

Something solid,

sturdy to stand on.

That’s what I need.

Something more than houses

made from straw.

A floor I can stomp on relentlessly,

walls I can lean on hopelessly.

I want something built to last,

and to hold the weight of the ins and outs-

the ups and downs.

We don’t need a mansion,

just walls to lean on, and a floor to stomp on-

a solid roof to live under.

Because I would rather sleep in a box made from stone,

than a castle made from sand.

I would rather sleep 

without the floor washing away,

or walls of straw collapsing.

Just something small

and sturdy to stand on-

to lean on.

Because big things don’t matter

if they can so easily be swept away.

Thick Skin

Bound in leather this notebook reads,

a thick skin wrapped around fragile pages-

filled with fragile words.

The scribbles and scratches of an untamed mind stain each piece with conversation,

dialogue to another person.

The perfect me.

The one that lives on the pages.

The one that humbles me, and reminds me that mistakes can be forgiven,

And most often, forgotten.

So when I open this book,

I’m greeted by a mirror.

A reflection.

A delicately grim apology

That begs forgiveness.

And it seems I am forgiven.

A new page, means new lines,

And that’s life really.

A look at yourself.

Page upon page of scribbles and scratches-

Day after day of humble conversations.

Everyday is a new chapter, though.

A chance to tell a new story,

you’ve just got to find the thick skin

to hold it all together.

Prolific Orchards 

Who are we to talk?

We are the fruits of a guilty conscience.

Well, the Apple doesn’t fall from the tree.

But not the tree, nor the apple are at fault.

It’s the man that planted them.

The man that nurtured these prolific orchards,

extending his reach through their fingers.

Dropping apple after apple,

leaving trails of fruit,

the common denominator isn’t hard to find.

You don’t even have to look.

Just follow along the path of bad seeds and you’ll find it.

A tree of his own, nursing the rest.

The rest of us.

And we’ll all fall.

We’ll be left at the foot of this tree,

hands too frail to pick us up.

Left to live and grow,

and drop apples of our own.