Spoken Poetry
Great Pains
Love is not a place, or strategy, direction, or inflection of voice, or choice, thing, way, or dream, even though it may seem like one to me, a man lost in his own sea and multiple versions of ‘me’.
Small Hands
The past is both place and theory, seems dreary, though, to wallow in my history and lose the mystery if I hold on to my version of self and not embrace
I is Me
I have come to realize old adages have truth, theorize old fears can die, believe that I have no purpose on this earth other than to disentangle the mystery of self
Melody of Self
I’m not sure there is anything more beautiful than feeling the feeling of someone sharing their feelings
through a gentle touch,
Chronicle of Dreaming Man
Every morning, he would row his boat gently down the stream,
merrily, thinking life is but a dream.
In Plain Sight
As I lay hiding, confiding to no one and no thing, the remnants of past selves bring me pain inside the heart I pretend is my brain is a boy, so scared to share himself with a world that seems so hard
Soft Feelings
Soft feelings are hard to let go, especially when they bleed into dreams and streams of consciousness that meander and flow into places I do not understand or know. Broken people made whole inside the hole within the sphere of the heart of the soul and liquid dreams, streams of…
