I’ve written so many poems

and in the past year or so, shared few. I’m debating whether or not to create a new blog since I’ve felt so many changes in my writing approach since its beginning. I started with shameless idealism. I got too serious. I experimented. I overdid it. I “quit” for a year and a half and stumbled back. I got lost. Reemerged. Took a leap of faith and found it again…. and now, I’m fighting for something brighter…but I don’t quite know what…

It’s funny how my hate and love for these poems oscillates. I see beauty in many and ridicule others. A few no longer make any sense. Plenty feel like diamonds in the rough–strong concepts + imagery that have potential–if only I gave them a bit more focus… I see places that I edited too much and unintentionally whittled away. And occasionally, I marvel.

The best version of myself feels grateful they’re all here, as well as a little regretful for the times I didn’t believe in them.

I’ve been experimenting with many new forms lately: journalism, copywriting, feature stories, flash fiction, creative non-fiction, satire, and even screenwriting. Poetry will always be my heart though. It’s the first form that ever made sense and the only one that has ever been intuitive.

So, if anyone is still listening, here’s more poems–and possibly some other structures. Thanks for being here.


blooming out of fire

shattered, unique, resilient
we are intersecting glass splinters
renewing the light born
from shadows a million years old

and if you look close enough
you’ll know the ancient spaces
where we fit right into ourselves

where darkness flips itself over
revolving in kaleidoscopic songs
and the mute buzz of drowned endings

we are teaching each other
how to sing with no ears
the theoretical masks
of delirium and the way
it all stings of life, like
a kiss of fleeting frostbite

look at us with a microscope
you’ll see how it coats our skin
clusters and drenches our eyes

a past home in the gutters that
resonates like an undercurrent
we know the musk of stale air
all too well

and yet there lies poetry
in our freshness

the kind of beauty only true
after hearts are eaten and melodies
are released to die

we are here to prevail

an unanticipated gospel

of malady