before words became bruises,

before your hand was a weapon, 

before my shirt lost its white,

and before tears were my food,

you were my father

and i was your son.




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.


plan b

old shadows 

that hover over the rocks and stones

in front of him

lead him with the wicked echos of regret

that his life had only become

his plan b.



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.



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.




 thickly layered and fragile

he sat in his safe space

framed by the things he’d become.

jealous for never taking chances

or challenging his truths

made of glue and antiseptic.



the duel between his heart and mind

became a dance in rhythmic measure

of opening and closing, 

each inflicting strict penalties on him

of reward and punishment

as conditions for love. 




sitting in his chair of discouragement

weaving individual threads of pain,

he created a blanket of

sadness scrawling across the floor.