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.




looking down through his glass 

he saw where the tears of wine

had left their stains of disappointment 

deep inside the splinters of a broken table.





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.



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.




 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.



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.