About Me

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

The Strongerthans (EDIT)

Half the time I can’t tell if I’m bitter,
Happy or nostalgic when what I’m really trying
To do is cross the finish line. Why haven’t
We talked exactly? I think I forgot,
I mean life gets so drastically dull with
Everything that needs done and then you shut
Down and shut people out, get anxious, but I don’t
Want to wait seven months to talk to you when you’re
Right there. And wow, I forgot how warm you are. I
Think I love you- no, that’s a lie, but I do like you a lot but why,
Why do we do this to ourselves? What exactly is this?
Why get so busy you get sick, then say you let life fall like
Puzzle pieces that get lost under a cheap maroon sofa and you freak
Out because you can’t get it back when
The obvious answer is to just move the stupid sofa,
We’re stronger than anyone’s willing to give us credit for.
And that’s really why I hate myself on Tuesdays even
When I used to love and stick up for them. Everyone
Has someone, so why can’t we be each other’s?
Just a few fearlessly falling feathers, floating,
Dancing, brushing, hugging, holding. Even on stupid Tuesdays.
So what I’m saying- I mean, what I’m asking is

I know we haven’t talked for a while, but can I kiss you?

Thursday, November 17, 2011

The Strongerthans (Long Version)

Half the time I can’t tell if I’m bitter,
Happy or nostalgic when what I’m really trying
To do is cross the finish line. Why haven’t
We talked exactly? I think I forgot
I mean life gets so drastically dull with
Everything that needs done and you shut
Down and shut people out automatically, but I don’t
Want to wait seven months to talk to you when you’re
Right there. And wow, I forgot how warm you are. I
Think I love you- no, that’s a lie, but I do like you a lot but why,
Why do people do this to themselves, what exactly is this?
Why get so busy you get sick, then say you let life fall like cracked
Puzzle pieces that get lost under a cheap maroon sofa and you freak
Out because you can’t get it back when
The obvious answer is to just move the stupid
Sofa, but we’re too blind to ourselves and what we can do
When we’re obviously stronger than anyone’s willing to give us credit for
And that’s really why I hate myself on Tuesdays even
When I used to love and stick up for them. Everyone
Has someone, so why can’t we be eachother’s?
Just a few fearlessly falling feathers, floating forever, endlessly
Dancing, brushing, hugging, holding- even on stupid Tuesdays.
So what I’m trying to say- I mean, what I’m asking is
I know we haven’t talked in a while, but can I kiss you?

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Little Crow, Little Crow

Little crow, little crow
I see you singing in the tree
Little crow, little crow
Is it a song for me?
I can hear your desire
Humming like a bee

Little crow, little crow
There’s something I have to say
Little crow, little crow
I am having a beautiful day
You made that song for me
And I never want to go away

Little crow, little crow
I am happy, you know
Little crow, little crow
Did you wish it so?
The way things seem to go
You drive away my woe

Little crow, little crow

Wednesday, October 26, 2011


Oh the things I have seen and done
And the people I have hurt are more than one
I live with more than one regret
Of expectations I have never met
But the time now has come
That I realize I am done
My journey has sadly come and gone
The strength from my body has all been drawn
I think I love you, it’s not a lie
I had to say it before I die

Black Heart Syndrome

Black Heart Syndrome: The Account of Bryn

“Bryn, you’ll never amount to a thing! You’re just like your mom.” That’s what my dad said to me one day after school. He thought I had been running around with some boy he had made up in his crazy head. So I killed him.

I didn’t show any mercy when I drove that steak knife deep into his chest where his heart was supposed to be. He didn’t know me. I was a recluse. I ignored all the boys who hit on me. I tried my best at school, at everything, but it just wasn’t enough for him. Day in and day out he would vocally harass and abuse me, telling me I was nothing, and would never amount to a thing. He wasn’t a real parent, not since mom left.

Warm blood spewed like a volcano, speckling my face as I drove the knife deeper. It was disgusting, but all I could think was “finally”. It just felt so right. I had killed the man who had a black heart.

For as long as I could remember I had this super power- no, that’s not it- this bad habit of looking at people’s hearts. There was a wide variety of them; some sparkled, some glowed in the dark. There were bright red ones, green ones, and I even saw one that had the lines of a puzzle, like I could pull it apart and piece it back together if I wanted to. Each person’s heart was just plastered on their chest, like it was sewn to their clothes as a fashion statement, but only I could see them. Me. And I always hated that my sorry excuse for a father’s heart was blacker than his rotting teeth.

Years passed, and I killed freely. It made sense to me, to kill the black heart scum. It gave me a high every time the life of a black heart left their lips, their eyes. It was like I stole their energy. I grew stronger as they fell. Nobody, no black heart, could cross me and expect to escape. I kept to myself, I didn’t socialize. I didn’t want to be involved with anyone.

Except Henry Walker.

The first day we met he saw me execute of some wealthy politician stalking women in the alley. His golden business pen was rammed through his chest like an arrow. I towered over his crumpled body, disgusted. He was a filthy man. He reminded me of some of the boys I grew up with.

The minute before the stranger spoke there was this striking smell that sifted through the air. I knew it didn’t belong to the ally; it was a good smell, something I’d be willing to buy at the store. “Nice execution, but you might want to work on your form.”

I looked down at the body of the politician, then back up at the stranger. He was gone.

I told myself a lot of things to explain what had happened. He was a stupid fan who read articles about people being stabbed through the heart. He was a hallucination. Maybe he was a ghost.

But I couldn’t get him off my mind no matter how hard I tried. I would sit in brightly lit cafes thinking of him, and one of those times, while I wasn’t paying attention, he slipped into the chair across the table from me. He was wearing a nice white shirt and his black hair was cut short. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days, and large sunglasses covered his eyes. He definitely looked nice. Then there was that smell again. It was so… human.

“I know how to kill you and make it look like a triceratops impaled you.” This was the only response I felt I needed to make him leave, but he didn’t. He stayed there staring at me through his aviators. I thought a little about my own hair and how compared to his it was a mess, just a blond ponytail. My jacket and skirt also had faint smears of blood on them from my kill earlier in the day. They didn’t look nearly as nice as his clothes. I would have felt embarrassed if I wasn’t able to change what about me people saw after a kill. It was part of my bad habit; In fact, sometimes that was the only way I was able to escape from a kill, by making people think I looked like someone else. If anyone was looking in my direction, they’d see me looking at least a little nicer than I really was; no blood on my clothes and better hair. Definitely better hair.

“That’s my dream death. How’d you know?” He said whimsically. He had a charming smile. I was pretty sure that if I kicked him in the crotch it would go away pretty quickly, though. “You only kill black hearts. That I know. Check my chest; I’m clean.”

I stared at his chest. His heart wasn’t so much clean as it was missing. I was extremely confused, and a little worried.

“You look cute when you’re confused. Like watching an alpaca in the rain.” That didn’t make any sense but I still felt myself blushing. “We both have bad habits. Because of that we can’t see each other’s hearts. We can’t even see our own.”

“Who are you?”

“Henry Walker. The pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure.”

Henry kept on popping up wherever I went, and after a week of this I reluctantly told him that my name was Bryn. Once I told him that he started joining me on my hunts for black hearts. He told me there were others like us, which I found hard to believe at first. He could pick out black hearts from a crowd just like me, though, and that was all the proof he had to give me that at least he was legit. I would ask him where he had met the others, and he would point out places in the city on our prowls where he had encountered them. Henry would rarely say more than that. I could never understand why he was so secretive about it.

“You know I’d rather learn more about you, Bryn.” Henry said to me on one particular walk through the alleys. He lifted up his sunglasses and placed them on top of his head. The sun was setting behind a fast food sign, and I wasn’t sure why he had even bothered to bring his shades since we always walked at night but he never liked giving me a straight answer. “I know I’m an amazing fella, but at some point you need to admit that you’re more than a little amazing yourself.”

Henry gave me that smile of his. This time I think he tried to add a little more sex appeal to it by angling his head downward a bit so his eyes looked more mysterious. I groaned and nudged his face away with my hand.

“If you knew just how amazing I really am, your hair would keel over from shock. Happy now? C’mon, let’s keep it moving.” I silently scolded myself for thinking even for a moment that he might be even a little cute.

Our little black heart prowls kept up, and he kept coming on stronger, little by little. First he told me I looked cute. He started bringing me flowers, then a heart-shaped necklace and eventually he said he thought he loved me. He had this unsure sincerity, and I believed him. I somehow got more comfortable around him and even his strange scent. I still wanted to be a recluse, but amazingly I was okay being a recluse with Henry, if that made sense. And one night I even let him take me to his apartment.

We lay side by side on the floor of his living room, staring at the white ceiling. That organic scent of his lingered everywhere in his place. It started fogging up my mind. I turned my head sideways to look at him and he stared back with his pretty boy smirk and ocean eyes. He whispered I love you, and then crawled on top of me. He wrapped his hands around my neck. My arms were free but I couldn’t bring myself to struggle. I could only choke out questions.

“If we’re the same…?”

“We’re not. I can’t see black hearts. You’re probably the only one who can.” The smell in the room was choking me as much as his hands were. “Oh, but don’t get me wrong- I have met and killed other people like us, with abilities. They were all unique and pretty fantastic.”

“How- Black hearts?” It wasn’t a real question, but it was all I could choke out.

“Black hearts have this smell… like trash. People like us have a smell too, of course.” His grip grew tighter. Instead of my life flashing in my mind, it was the moment I killed my father. My real birth. “I release pheromones in the air to make people like us fall in love with me and unwilling to fight back. Then I kill them.” Henry paused for a moment. “I’ve learned to hide my inner self from people like you, who can see what people really are. I’m what you are to the black hearts. A hungry, hungry wolf in black sheep’s clothing.” He leaned forward and his lips brushed against my forehead. “You look so cute with the color drained from your face. I just thought you should know that.”

I couldn’t see his heart, but I told myself it had to be blacker than black, like ink, as black as a lump of coal, or a black hole. Those thoughts, and the image of my father, got me angry and gave me the little bit of strength that I needed. I would enjoy every second of his demise.

My hands moved to the waist of my pants, drawing out the small knife I kept there in a sheath. Henry wasn’t paying attention; he was drinking in his victory, thinking I didn’t have any strength left. One swift motion was all I needed for my knife to find its way to where his heart should have been. A steady stream of blood trickled warm droplets on me. He fell over and I got up, shaking and coughing. I stared at his body, watching while his life drained with every heartbeat and his life became my strength. But I didn’t really feel a thing. On his chest, after his last breath, appeared a black heart. It was shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. I placed the necklace he gave me on top of the pieces. I had broken his heart.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Two Lovers Hanging From A Tree (Story)

Two lovers hung from an old birch tree, ever so daintily. They swayed in the brisk wind, the ropes around their necks anchoring them to the creaky old tree they considered home. And while the couple never wished to be apart, the fact of the matter was one was afraid to open up to the other.
“Daria, my sweet, you must understand!” Joseph cooed softly, trying so desperately to calm his love. “There is simply no way I can commit so fully at this particular instance in time.”
Daria, choking back tears from her pale cerulean eyes could not understand. All Joseph was willing to do was admit that he liked her, which was all well and good but, alas, he refused to say the blasted word love. Of course the way Joseph felt it nearly killed him just to say he liked her. He even imagined it might have if he was not already dead.
“Joseph, I fear I cannot handle this much longer. How dreadful and dire a situation we’re in. It is a standoff of two towering wills!” The blue in her face got slightly darker in her despair. She understood Joseph’s heart had been broken many times, but she hoped oh so much that he would have trusted her a little more. “We are here for eternity, until we are bones and then dust. You must admit love at some point.”
“Precisely my sweet, sweet kumquat. We have the roads of eternity ahead,” Joseph pointed out.
Daria did not like this response. She turned her head as far away from her lover as she could, aided by a chill gale. The dainty dark-haired Daria stared, discouraged, at the abyss of the night sky splattered with the stars and planets. She could hope to name not but a fraction due to their sheer overwhelming numbers, even given forever and a day. It was a daunting task, nigh impossible, and that was how she felt about her once bright pumpkin, her Joseph. She wondered if she could wish on just one of the plethora of sparkling, glistening stars, and have her love’s heart be mended.
Joseph stared longingly at Daria’s frame. He knew it was rude to stare, but he could not help it. Though he was afraid to say it, he knew he was smitten, he was in love. Oh, what a love it was!
“Just tell her that you love her,” a little coal colored crow cried into dead Joseph’s rotting ear. “You will never regret it, for as long as you are here!”
“My little bird, my little bird, I was told that over and over once upon a time. I find that is not true and I have regretted each time I have said that word. Oh, the loves that have shattered my frame! I have regretted using that word every day, every hour, every minute!” Joseph wailed. He wanted the tears to drain from his eyes but it just could not be so. The little crow, flustered and worried for his friend, soared gracefully next to Daria and pecked at her shoulder.
“Daria, Daria!” The little crow cried. “Joseph is so sad, so heart-broken you see!”
“But what does that have to do with me? What can I do when he so radically refuses to love?”
“You see my girl, what he really needs is someone to cry with,” the crow whistled ever so gently to the stubborn corpse. Daria stared at the little bird, then at the endless sky blanketed with the white smudges of the milky-way. She pondered. She poured over her feelings for the boy and what the crow said, and then came to a conclusion.
“Joseph, if I love you then I must respect you.”
“What, my fragile plum?” Joseph nervously responded, his eyes locking into Daria’s and the key being thrown away.
“Joseph, if you are not ready then I shall no longer insincerely insist you say ‘I love you too’. What you need is someone to be patient, someone to cry with. So for now, instead of boorishly bickering, we shall weep instead.” A brisk night wind lifted up her arm and Daria caressed his frigid cheek. Clouds whelled together in the sky far above, and for a moment water dropped lovingly on the two corpses, dancing and spinning as it descended. Together it seemed as if Joseph and Daria cried through the divine forces of nature.
Under the sobs of the celestial body of sky Joseph whispered ever so faintly, “You too. I love you too.”
The two lovers hanging from a tree learned a lesson that day. Sometimes what you really need is someone to cry with and pour out your troubled soul, and your shattered heart to whether it be black or blue or yellow too. Everyone at some point needs to know they are loved, that someone else will cry with them, and that all will be well. Someone to whisper, “I love you too.”

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Black Hearts

*Set to the tune of black socks

Black hearts, they never get better
The longer you have one the blacker it gets
Someday maybe I’ll fix yours
‘Cause a voice keeps on telling me
“Kill now, kill now, kill now, kill now”

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Letter Burner (Intro)

A short story idea I'm thinking about going with. Here's the intro. Thoughts?


Once upon a time there was a magical man who lived in the white woods overlooking a small town known simply as Strawberry Fields. He lived peacefully enough in his little cottage, wasting away his days writing songs of adventures he never had but longed to go on, poems of a love he never had, and journals of the town below. And though he had plenty of visitors from the town not so far below, he always felt alone. But that was once upon a time, long ago. The town was now gone, and just like life Dante LaChance simply moved on.

The days seemed to grow shorter as Dante grew older. He saw much, but never really held on to any of it. It was all fleeting, fuzzy memories that were really quite clear. But he kept on moving, growing wiser than he was as a caged bird as he took everything in.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Gritty Young Teens

“Tell me- what here doesn’t belong?”

Two boys walked along a creek. Two boys; on the outside, both painfully average. There was nothing special, nothing unique. One boy was Michael- tall, his hair black and messy. The other, Peter, was a bit shorter, somewhat younger, his hair brown and short. He wore a long sleeved shirt to brace himself against the chill of the springtime air that oozed and floated around him like an ocean current. Michael had a white hooded sweatshirt hanging loosely from his form. Nothing special at all. They stopped at the water’s edge and faced each other. They were silent at first, and then Peter spoke a simple phrase.

“It’s coming up.”


“Tell me- what here doesn’t belong?” Michael put his hand against the brick wall and leaned in towards the under-classmen Peter. He brought his face close to the younger boy’s.

“You’re too close.” Peter casually placed a dingy white cigarette in his mouth and lowered his face to meet a silver lighter he held carefully in his hand. The flame went up for only a second, a short-lived geyser of autumn oranges and yellows, before it vanished as quickly as it had arrived to do its job.

Michael looked amused, his eyebrows rising up and down a few times. “What was that, now?”

“You’re in my bubble.” Peter inhaled deeply and held in the smoke. For a moment he felt as though he were holding his breath for the sole purpose of being underwater, and Michael was a desperately starving shark circling around him, waiting to pounce. Peter couldn’t defend himself. All he could do was stare in a sick satisfactory manor with the secret wish that he might die.


In the woods near the river a heavy air made itself present. Peter felt the pressure building up; a negative energy so threating that a lion would run from it was moving towards the boys, an ocean of force that brought them deeper and deeper into the depths of something horrific.

“It’s coming up.”

“Keep looking at me, sport.” Michael kept his hands in his pockets, acting as natural as he could. It was working.

“It’s coming up.” Peter started buckling under the force of the pressure.

“I heard you the first time.”

“Just making sure you’re ready.” Peter began shaking, slowly at first. The pressure started building. The shaking got worse.


Peter exhaled the plumage of smoke he was keeping hostage in his body. The cloud choked out the air and any pleasantries that may have existed.

“You shouldn’t smoke at your age. What are you, like twelve?” Michael inhaled the fumes, the smoke vanishing into his nasal cavities. He looked un-phased, and just smiled.

“Fifteen. And if you don’t like it go away.” He took a shorter drag and exhaled right in Michael’s face. Michael didn’t flinch.

“Answer my question and I will.” Michael leaned a little closer, tilted his head. His smile wouldn’t go away. Tell me what here doesn’t belong.”

Peter paused with the cigarette a millimeter from his lips. “It’s you.”


“It’s here.”

A grizzly blob shot out from the woods with four eyes each larger than either boy, green with envy- six clawed arms sprouted from each side and made their way to Michael. He turned around, and unveiled his true form- his skin melted away to reveal a fiery creature; An Archangel. A mask replaced his face; thin elegant wings erupted from his back.

St. Michael Held a sword by his side and plunged it through the demon’s beastly hand, a hideous shriek from it reverberating in the air. The vibrations shook Peter to the bone. The demon flailed his limbs, black ooze raining down over Peter, and one of the demon’s limbs met Peter’s body at full force, knocking him into the river. The creature of ill-intent faded away.

“Peter, where is it?” St. Michael hung in the air, fire lapping around his form. He could still feel the presence of the demon, but his vision had failed him. Anyone’s vision would have at that point- after all, one can’t see something that’s not there. But Peter could. He saw things that didn’t belong.

Peter tried standing up but splashed back into the water instead. He tried again, and was a little more successful, being able to keep himself up for more than a few seconds this time. He looked around keeping a watchful gaze. At first there was nothing- Then he saw it, a trail of black tar, acid breath being exhaled, a faint outline of a large mass. Peter pointed his finger, his hand shaking so violently St. Michael almost couldn’t tell where Peter was pointing. Michael moved like wildfire, sparodic, random, unpredictable- he slashed his sword in the general area Peter pointed to, his blade slicing through the air itself until it stopped because it hit a target. The beast reared back, full of rage and emptiness (two things a demon is always filled with), and became visible again. It recognized Peter as a threat to its safety as much as St. Michael now; he was no longer a simple human meal to feast on. At great speeds it raced to Peter and suddenly stopped in front of him, its blobby face inches from Peter’s shaking body, shaking so much that it could have fallen apart right then. The monster opened a cavern in its black as coal face for a make-shift mouth, shadows oozing down over the cavern and making a satanic smile a harlequin would be proud of. It opened up into nothingness and eternal gloomies. Peter fell back into the water.

St. Michael was a wildfire, though, blessed with speed unmatched. He stood in front of his companion now, finger wagging in front of the beast’s face. In surprise the demon tried backing up, only to start tripping on its own arms. St. Michael brought his arm back, his flames producing a lance with which he thrust forward. It pierced the demon’s face. There was a brief pause, and like a balloon it deflated, ceasing to exist.


“I’ve never met an angel before. I’ve met a lot of other things, yeah, but never one of you guys… I was starting to wonder if only the bad existed.” Peter stood on of a partially constructed building; below him the construction site lay practically undisturbed underneath the low lit glow of the setting, melted gummy-bear sun. St. Michael slowly descended, his wispy wings growing backwards into his back and his mask cracking and falling off. “Are you here to defend the Earth or something?”

“We take turns exterminating demons. Me and the other angels, I mean.” Peter backed up a few feet. Michael touched down on the edge of the building where the other once stood. Michael looked at Peter, and Peter tried to do the same to Michael but the sun was directly behind the angel.

“Yeah? You save people in distress, like me? Am I your damsel?” Peter shielded his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he was shielding them from the light orb plastered in the burning sky or Michael, who still seemed to have his own glow despite no longer being in his holy form. “Don’t you guys run out of demons after a while?”

“It’s the fault of humans, you know.” Michael’s comment was off-handed, and Peter frowned at this response. He looked disappointed in the angel. Michael caught the look and started correcting himself. “Woah, I‘m not saying the human race as a whole is evil and they’re the reason for blah blah blah doom and destruction. There are evil humans, but there are plenty of good ones too. What I’m saying is it’s all accidental, it’s based solely on rumors and fear. When people go around spreading urban legends, the fear builds and feeds the seed of evil and then it takes shape. It’s-”

Peter interrupted. “Endless. It’s endless, I get it. So why’d you corner me earlier?”

“Because you can see the demons.”

“Thanks? I kinda know that already. I’m pretty sure you can too.”

Michael shook his head. “I can’t always see them. They can hide themselves, and while I’m here I’m bound by certain laws. Some of those laws limit my power and what I can see of the evil. You’re special. You have the tint in your eyes; can see the evil even when it tries to hide itself.”

“Bound by certain laws? That’s dumb. How are you supposed to do your job then?” Peter gradually lowered his arm to his side and settled for squinting really hard.

“The world won’t be ready for that much celestial power until the end of days, and even then the gift of sight doesn’t belong to me.” The sun was almost gone now, leaving behind a black canvas slowly being filled with the glowing freckles of the night sky. “We don’t need that much power to dispel this low level fear anyway.”

“That’s… nice.”

“You can make my job easier.” Michael boldly inched forward, following Peter’s footsteps. He placed a falsely human hand on Peter’s shoulder and patted it a few times before retreating.
Peter shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I’ll do it.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll try my hardest to do some good for this world.” The seer gave a soft smile and looked at the spots in the sky. He let out his breath.

“Then as an angel I promise to stand by you and protect you, as long as you’re alive.” Michael said whimsically. Peter rotated his head slowly back at Michael, who was holding out his hand to seal the pact they made underneath the waning moon. They were bare; they both knew who the other was and had nothing to hide. Peter took the angel’s hand.


“Are you alright?” Michael asked as he reached out his now human arm to help up Peter from the water. To Peter the knowledge that the skin touching his was fake, not all there like a pieced together memory, frightened him to a degree. He always wondered what would happen if he were to touch the real St. Michael; would he burn like an effigy of sin? Michael squinted his eyes and looked at the side of Peter’s head, pointing out the blood dripping down slowly. “I’m surprised you’re not crying.”

“I don’t cry.” Peter flicked off the water from his arms as best he could and brought out a moist cigarette, the side of which had BAD STANDARD scrawled on it sloppily.

A little amused, Michael replied “Can’t or won’t?”

Peter lit up his cigarette and took a long drag, breathing in the toxins like a life force. The tip looked like a dying firefly, the smoke its last desperate dying message of love unknown. He continued. “You’ve seen worse than I have. After a while, there just aren’t any more tears left.”

“I’ve seen humans kill for gifts like yours.” The angel stared up at the newspaper sky. He felt a longing to be up above, and he started to lose himself in thought forgetting just for a moment that Peter was there.

“I wouldn’t give it to them.” The response caused Michael to draw his attention back to Peter, who kept on killing himself slowly with his bad habit. Michael opened his mouth in surprise trying to think of a response.


“Nobody else needs to go through the experience of seeing what I see. I’ll accept this gift graciously if it means saving somebody else from having to accept it.” Peter shrugged and looked over at Michael. “Were you stargazing? I can’t believe how quick you get over these attacks. Ah frick, I’m cold! Can we leave now?”

Michael loosened up and smiled at Peter. “Let’s jet.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t just turn into an angel again and use your flames to dry me off.” Peter rubbed his arms for warmth and sneezed. He was easily prone sickness. Michael chuckled.

“I think that’d be abuse of power. Next you’ll want to use me to roast marshmallows.” Michael punched Peter’s shoulder.

“Whatever. Jerk.” Peter punched him back and the two walked back along the riverbank steadily, making small talk, sharing words back and forth, conversing and discussing. And so the night ended, just another average evening for two unique individuals who simply wanted to do good in the world.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Blue Moon

Blue moon on the swing
Back and forth
For a short eternity
Blue moon on a swing
Singing, talking
Pleading for the moon to stay
Azure, Blue, Cerulean
On a swing, under the blue moon
Plucking out chords
To a sincere voice
All for the
Blue moon on a swing


Absence makes the heart
Grow fonder,
And then forget.
You see,
The sky
Is awful big & lonely,
Lonelier than it is down here.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Fuzzy Memories of Someone Perfect

These lonely memories
Are giving a disease
Reminding me
That if I still
Have the capacity to hate
Then I haven’t grown up
Despite my fuzzy memories
Of someone I called perfect
Someone whose back I chase
And will forever
But I’m still drowning
In a complicated relationship
With, and simply with myself
Because it’s who I am
And what I do

Two Lovers Hanging From A Tree

Two lovers hanging from a tree
Dead ashes flying across the ground
Sprinkling graying smiles
And melancholy heads turned down
Eyes barely peaking up
Cheating only the mind

A love like a dandelion seed
Unable to land on turbulent seas
Two lovers hanging from a tree
Singing off-key
And their bodies will find
An eternal truth denied
All in the ashes coming down
Two lovers hanging from a tree

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Pancakes At 2 A.M.

Eating pancakes at 2 am
Talking about leading estranged lives
Privileged in our own view
Grateful for what we have
Allie, Eugene, Luke
But come on, Allie
Forget this mess
The mass of little lies
Every tall-tale
That will be our demise
But your seaweed eyes…

Come on Allie
Come on Allie
Stop fading through the lines
Stop Catching all the flies
All on fire
Showing off, flaring up
Leading us to meals
2 a.m. Pancakes

Leading the way
For Mr. Eugene
Might cost you your soul
Just sit with me, show a little bit of honesty
All I want's a little bit of honesty
Come on Allie

I Disagree With Your Face

He has this need to disagree with everything that I say
Always jumping at the chance to knock me down
Then there's days he can't keep going
Tying himself lower than me
Why? Why, why, why, oh why?
Keep away from Allie
Come on Luke, come on Luke
Cutting out the faces who barely disagree
You're so pathetic
Remember those days teeming with honesty? Isn't that all you want?
There are times he can't keep fighting
So he leaves to fight another day
He can't win her over, only staring at her face.
What's one more regret in a growing list
Tell me Luke; where's your little bit of honesty?


The world is slowly turning to glass
I'm the weak link at the end of the chain (Luke)
Still asking for that little bit of honesty
Cutting out the faces I see
The ones staring disapprovingly
If I still can hate Eugene,
Then maybe I haven't grown quite yet

We're just never-mades, grounded in self doubt
Spinning round and round
On a never-ending merry-go-bound
In another direction
Breaking all the stained glass up above the failing sky
Raining chunks right between the lines
Of another tell tale lie
Checking out the games you're playing with her mind
Wasting all the days of broken politics
There's a whole wide world out there, Allie
So why are you stuck here with Eugene?