I am a lousy poet
evading rhythm and rhyme
expecting words to eloquently tumble onto the page
I am a lousy poet
a leech who longs for others’ poetic moments
only to craft them into my own faux experience
I am a lousy poet
who begrudgingly etches words onto a page
and whines about why I don’t write as much any more
I am a lousy poet
who blames my stubborn writing habits on politics (it just might prove to be true)
and wonders, “were all the famous poets also this lousy?”
There’s really nothing new to see here.
Civilians lie prone on the grassy land,
heads raised to spot the moment’s foes,
which only increases the risk to them.
Behind them, a young soldier races:
clad in standard camouflage and kevlar,
eyes fixed, his weapon at the ready.
We’ve seen all this before, but where?
Do we really need a list, and if so,
how to order insanity’s legacy again?
(after an undated and untitled photograph from the portfolio, “Early Works,” by Nick Hannes)
In a city veined with ghosts,
where time pools in the corners
and the air holds its breath,
the past rises like steam
from cobblestones—
warm, familiar,
and aching to be touched.
You are not here.
Yet everything feels touched by you.
Your absence wears a shape,
and I have learned to live around it—
like furniture left in a room
no longer meant for comfort.
Your fingers,
invisible,
still trace the hollows of my face
like wind through cathedral ruins,
a reverence in their retreat.
Your voice—a thread unwinding in my ear—
offers the promises you would give,
with none of the weight to hold it.
Were you ever real?
did I really touch you —feel your embrace?
Or have you always been
just the shadow between heartbeats,
-the echo between words?
I pause and breathe…
A shiver climbs my spine-
like ivy on old stone.
I am gripped by a phantom wind,
and some part of me
blooms at the thought of you,
despite knowing
you are memory, not form.
This haunting—
A ghost not of loss—
but of pause.
Sometimes I hear the future
breathing beneath the present—
a whisper beneath the noise,
asking if we are done
or simply
waiting.
And as this city lulls me to sleep
as it sings its ancient melody-
I am reminded-
It is hard to bury something
that is fighting to stay alive.
Jazz orange! Incorporated cardio!
Celestial or antidepressant?
American sign language for I love
you too much like rock on so I really
love you (extra finger cross).
High throat noises pup. Scrabble
with the camp counselors. Dadaist
as hell, the whole day, my hands
darting flecks from the sparkler
of my body. Some full sentences
but mostly not. Clocked in
to wringing the lemon skins
which I’ve used to make metaphor
before of paining oneself,
but I’m dancing on sour.
I’m trying not to make it all
about myself but please look!
I made it up the peach tree
all by myself, and before it rotted
of fungus! Metropolitan leaf blur
out the train, blur me out, blur me.
No more summaries. A sash
calling me beautiful, calling me.
It begins in the mind—
no harm evident,
no progress undone.
The most dangerous thought:
“I deserve more.”
It creeps in corners left unchecked,
where truth is traded for comfort,
and comfort becomes the cage.
Not fire, but fog.
Not chains, but choices.
Repeat them until they rot.
The slow destruction of a man
too proud to admit fault,
yet too lost to justify cause.
I don’t follow noise—
I follow routine,
familiarity,
what feels like home.
Walls built from compromise.
Windows sealed with pride.
Where comfort lives,
change often dies.
Slowly, quietly,
with the faint resonating sound
of “maybe tomorrow.”
I found peace in drifting.
I became familiar with change
when chasing transformation
left me suffocating.
I adapted on the surface of erosion,
like it’s evolution.
I celebrated milestones,
while my soul stayed still.
Freedom only avoids guilt
Growth only distracts from grief
Purpose is left unknown.
Comparison is not the only
thief of joy.
Temporary pleasure is its accomplice.
The illusion of a quick fix
has a job to bury potential.
I pretended this is okay
hoping it would vanish.
I prayed without kneeling,
hoping conversation mattered.
I stood near the gate without knocking,
hoping my entry was guaranteed.
What good is forgiveness
if I treat grace
like a loophole
instead of a lifeline?
What good is Heaven
if I drag my hell with me?
Wearing the name,
yet carrying no resemblance?
Entering cleansed, yet cold,
Forgiven, yet foreign?
This is not peace.
This is panic.
Maybe it ends well
Maybe the road
turns gold and I force
this leaf to turn.
However, that “maybe”
is hope with no plausible evidence.
The journey is where the
pain of a sin-filled life is felt.
Forgiveness fades
when it becomes permission
instead of redemption.
When the pain of same is worse
than the pain of change,
most people wake up.
Why haven’t I?
A change MUST happen.
I cannot bear the thought
of standing in the Kingdom,
a stranger to the life
He died to give me.
The sun sets on conversation
Germany, Massachusetts, Kentucky
all present
laser-focused.
The debate:
nature vs. nurture.
Harvard vs. Homeschool
Men vs. Women;
an argument for the ages.
Eyes dart back and forth;
Small fidgets punctuate counterpoints.
We say,
“Well–“
“…but what about-“
even though we all agree.
A prize,
the whole game was.
Nobody really made
it to the whole truth anyway.
“Good to meet you!”
“Same to you.”
“Have a good night.”
“You as well.”
I’m so grateful to live a life like this.
