Justice Over Equality

For too long, they’ve accepted the bitter fruit.
You’ve subjugated them to an unequal seat,
And for years, they’ve been waiting patiently,
Hidden in the back room.

They’ve taken the scraps you’ve thrown out,
Yet they’ve created something of their own.
They’re a proud, vigilant, and righteous people,
Who will rest no longer.

Poverty is their sea, but the tide has turned.
Their humanity has risen against the man’s boot,
For deep within their struggle, there is persistence,
And they will prevail.


Hot, humid, and sticky
That’s probably how Florida feels
Whenever I think of that particular panhandle state,
Turquoise and flamingo pink appear in my head,
And I feel nauseous
I’m sure it’s not all bad,
They’ve got Disneyland!
But something about it…just makes me suspicious
The sunshine state is always marred by controversy,
And it never seems to make the right decisions
Like a middle-aged man living with their parents,
Florida permeates a nervous yet terrifying aura

Winds of Change

Usually I’m a pretty happy-go-lucky guy
But lately, an anvil of dread has been tied onto me
My reservoirs of faith have been depleted and uncertainty is king here

But from the Sahara, a dust storm is on its way
Powerful winds with their mythical forces could carry my troubles away
Across the valleys and mountains to be deposited elsewhere so I can feel whole once again

Rust Belt

The hum of the cottage AC fills the evening air
Empty bottles decorate the porch with diffracted light
Heat pitter patters on the Midwestern breeze,
As fireflies emerge for their nightly performance

This ode to classic Americana has faded into the fringes
With its purpose fulfilled, it lies waiting for a new suitor


Hours pass by as we wrestle like jungle cats in our forest of pillows and sheets
Our movements are fiery and each kiss lands upon the bare skin like a firecracker
We search through the vegetation for one another
Until our lips embrace and our bodies appear to be floating in space
Knickknacks and cups resemble the asteroid belt as our ghostly bodies
Blindly travel across the mysterious realm with only our touch to guide us
I’m terrified of the deep blue destination, so you grasp my hand
And lead me instead to your comfortable and melodious abode

Season of the Nightly Terrors

A few streets away, a bridge connects two neighborhoods.
In my dreams, there he stands, the faceless man
Dressed in a tattered suit, he searches for a sound
Hidden in the closet of my bedroom, I shudder silently
The vibrations alone attract him closer to my home
He walks in the middle of the road
The fog separating with fear before him
Moonlight pierces through the clouds,
And illuminates his presence, a petrifying sight,
With each breath that I take, he comes closer,
Until he stands right before my door,
His worn out boots visible from underneath.
The doorknob turns and before he can creep inside,
I wake up

A Day’s Palette

The morning is always a navy blue
Neither bad nor good
Something to look forward to
But if it doesn’t go my way,
I’m still okay

The middle of the day is forest green
Growth and character are stored here
I can tread ahead, determined,
Or I can rest, a quick slumber
Behind the shade of my curtains

The evening is a gradient of orange and pink
My favorite time, filled with anticipation
Plans are designed and executed
Before venturing out, I admire my clothes,
Beneath the fluorescence of the bathroom light

The nighttime is a purple of various shades
Here, I preach resolution
I weigh my wishes against their consequences
And balance the books
To start the new day on a fair note

Lovin’ You

Enveloped within the tile walls,
The mist between us dances to the ceiling,
And my body calls out to yours.
I hold you tightly against my skin
Trying desperately to fuse with you.
We exchange kisses for nothing,
But the water droplets around us are rich
With our transparent tenderness.
My soul has never before felt this deep intimacy,
Its sweetness is almost overbearing.
But I allow myself to sink into the watery wall,
For I know that you’ll be with me.


Was there a door I left open?
Because I don’t remember inviting you in.
Not sure how I want to greet you,
You’ve left a golden hue upon the world,
Yet jealousy and doubt upon my white sleeves.

But maybe I’m the one with broken mirror,
And the chinks in my armor are self-inflicted wounds.
Friday night after dinner or early Sunday morning,
I suppose, you don’t care when, but how
You invade the peaceful valley of my thoughts.

Thought I had left all of your scraps behind,
And put in my pockets, only the most desirable pieces.
But your memory, a burning effigy, is still visible.
When you come in, please sit across from me.
The humble desk will mediate our laughs and tears.

Professional Procrastinator

In the day, I sit in my chair
Eyes wide open, my mind blank
A seemingly calm outlook
For a man with a to-do list
I lounge around and drink coffee
To stay up and do nothing

My nervous self comes to visit me at night

In the day, portraits watch my every move.
To appease myself, I run through the routine,
But I know of my sham.
Written notes disguise my actions,
The books fortify my falsehood.
A pretty, glass house that I’ve built
To allow my consciousness to peer in,
And glee with satisfaction.

My nervous self comes to visit me at night

In the day, the clock groans with disappointment
The seconds, minutes, and hours all pass by
Endless work to be done
But my lobotomized mind is fixed elsewhere
The fire continues to swell under my feet
But I pay no mind until the day is done

My nervous self comes to visit me at night

1 2 3 4