I’m sorry,
I didn’t mean to leave so suddenly.
I really miss him
and I still care about him.
I was just scared
that he was upset with me,
and instead of talking about it,
I left.
I feel ashamed about it.
I don’t want him to hate me.
I don’t want him to think
I left because I didn’t care.
I just don’t like affection.
I don’t like love.
I don’t like relationships.
They make me uncomfortable.
I’ve always felt uncomfortable with them.
I don’t know why.
Every time someone gets close to me,
part of me just wants to leave.
But with him,
I actually felt happy.
And that’s what makes me feel worse,
because I really did care about him,
and I really did like being with him.
I just can’t stay.
It doesn’t feel right to me.
It never does.
Even when everything is good,
I still feel like I need to get away.
I wish I knew how to explain it better.
I wish I could just be normal about love
and not feel so uncomfortable with it.
But I can’t.
So I left,
and I’m sorry.
Maybe one day
I’ll understand myself better.
Maybe one day
I’ll stop being scared of love.
Maybe one day
I’ll learn how to love.
But right now,
I just don’t know how.
My poems don't often end too well.
Usually, things go all to hell,
but you can grow a smile from a frown -
read my poems upside down.
A clever young squirrel
named Sammy was bold,
Until a sharp frost made the
branches turn cold.
He stood on an oak tree and
looked at a pine,
But lost all his courage and
started to whine.
"I've forgotten the trick!"
Sammy cried to a bird,
"My paws are too heavy, my
vision is blurred!"
A blue jay flew down with a
twitch of her wing,
"Just focus your eyes and
remember the spring!"
The chipmunks all gathered
to watch from below,
They shouted
encouragement down in the
snow.
"You've done it a thousand
times, Sammy, just try,
You don't need real wings to
feel you can fly!"
He wiggled his whiskers and
lined up his feet,
And pushed off the bark with
a rhythmic beat.
He sailed through the air like
a furry brown airplane,
And landed safely in the pine
tree again.
The crowd cheered so loudly
the forest did shake,
And Sammy celebrated with
an acorn cake.
He learned that whenever
you face a big fear,
Just trust in yourself and
your friends cheering for you.
Who doesn’t know how to love,
Won’t know tomorrow, think,
To love Juliette’s mouth,
To love the poetry of Rome,
Who doesn’t know how to love,
Have you read Marc Aurèle?
To love the call of the forest,
Watch a swallow?
Who doesn’t know how to love,
Loving the eyes of Lucille,
The cypress-augustes of Tuscany,
La Traviata by Puccini,
Won’t know tomorrow, think.
How to cast a magic ring for protection
Make a circle of salt in the forest
Light four candles:
green for north, yellow for east, red for south and blue for west.
A bowl of fresh clean water
A tree branch to touch the bowl when asking for purification
Walk round circle clockwise
Chant to the Spirit
What it is you will.
You may visualise this.
Then imagine a gift for the spirit
Sire Marcus Barracus.
You left like someone closing a window
during a storm they had invited in.
The curtains kept breathing your name
long after your footsteps forgot the floor.
I still find your fingerprints
on ordinary things—
a glass of water,
an unanswered call,
the side of the bed that remains diplomatic.
Love did not leave me gracefully.
It dragged furniture across my ribs,
broke mirrors inside my throat,
taught silence how to scream.
You called it fate.
I called it arson.
You built a home in my pulse
then evacuated without warning.
Now every room in me
smells of burnt letters
and rainwater.
Some nights
I wear my grief like expensive perfume—
subtle at first,
then impossible to ignore.
The moon watches me rehearse
all the conversations
we never survived.
I have memorized the mathematics of loss:
one body,
two ghosts,
infinite apologies.
Still—
if you knock at my door
with your ruined hands
and your late remorse,
I might open it
just to prove
even ashes
can remember fire.
My blood cannot heal me
of my inequities
my blood is corrupted
in sinful DNA of the first man
who caused us all to stumble
the only blood that heals my soul
is the incorruptible one shed by the Lamb
two thousand years ago
on that rugged cross
Carl’s frequently picking his nose
He's saving it, as does twin Rose
They now have a huge pile
Of dried snot, it's so vile
And daily their collection grows!
Their mother found the pile of snot
And deftly removed the whole lot
Carl cries, Rose starts bleating
"That snot was for eating"
Their mother does not care a jot!
Rather than deep dives into the daily news
I’ve been taking deep dives off cliffs with views
For the news only makes me more and more pissed
Though after my latest dive off a cliff, ~ I no longer exist
.
aight bruh
you right
were
gravel thuh
hurts
kneez yo
mhm
,/\,
*oh, this be one uv mine
"l'il dip'erz"
thuh <]') come'n soon ')
much love
If you are going to wear this hanbok
you must honor its silent rules.
Yes, they are particular and precise
but this is our lineage, our breath.
The jeogori must sit just so across the chest
Your left side should fold over the right—
never the reverse, for that is for the deceased.
Your sleeves must bloom like morning flowers,
the chima skirt should bell outward
a perfect circle when you twirl.
Your hair cannot be loose and wild,
it must be gathered in a neat bun
adorned with binyeo pins that catch the light,
not your light.
.
i hear theze werdz
each landlop
mine
if'n i don't
forth mawz
mine
thuh likewize
query
Start with the fracture -
the splintered thing lodged in your ribs
that no cough can dislodge.
Call it "inspiration" if you must,
but know it is just hunger
with a prettier name.
Next, the bones:
a rhythm tapped absentmindedly
on a diner table,
the half-heard melody
of a stranger’s laugh,
the way your childhood home
still hums in your teeth
when you say its name.
Now, the bloodwork -
verbs writhing like minnows in your palms,
adjectives that stick like burrs to your sleeves.
(Here is where you’ll bleed.
A poem is not a wound,
but the salt rubbed into one.)
Arrange the fragments on the page.
Watch them refuse to fit.
This is the part where you learn:
a poem is not a puzzle,
but the hand that shakes
as it forces the pieces together.
Finally, the lie -
the smoothing, the sanding,
the pretense that this
was always the shape
you intended.
Sign your name at the bottom.
Walk away before it cracks.
A bard born to a muse is full of song,
for he imbibes on the milk of her breasts,
a suckling babe that's inspired 'ere too long,
to pen refrains, lines, and this sonnet no less.
When inspired, songs of bravery are plentiful;
and words of chivalry gallop on page
like gallant knights to damsels most beautiful:
to him, Poesy never knew a greater age!
But bards worth their weight in gold soon realize,
that one must learn how to be their own muse,
for the muse can choose to not exercise
her power (and what choice have we if she refuse?).
Like the primes, the muse leaves and disappears,
as the bard's years increase past life's hemispheres.
My friend watched a game last night
-- a real ‘nail-biter’
Poor fellow, carpenter that he is
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