he hoped the lonely tears that fell down his cheeks

were like the raindrops that fall down from the sky …

for only a little while.



the boy in the window

carving a broken heart in his breath,

realized the condensation dripping down

was like watching his tears…

die on his lips.


van Gogh

he freed his fingers from my hand

to paint his own van Gogh

on the side of another square

he felt was a better fit.



with a carnival balloon in hand

and paper banjos playing softly beside the river

he walked home,

pausing only for a moment

to released the fictional helium hope

of ever finding his own huckleberry …



the pile of faded out t-shirts

that sit silent in the corner of an empty room

still have the scented memories 

of his wasted kisses, lost loves,

and the absent knowing

of how to feel something for someone.




in the basement of his soul,

concealed scars reached up to

turn off the light to his heart.



with the flowers quickly fading

and his parents passed,

he listened for their whisper through the rain

just to have some small hope 

he wasn’t alone.



driving into the unknown 

on flat tires

that follow shadows and empty signs,

he left behind 

another second chance.



he made a cage

of wired lies and compliments

for his heart.