Stay Humble

Everyone (wants to) think they are an artist.
But, true art is meant to fall apart.
It is the “and” “or” and “but”s stringing along a paragraph, written that makes no sense.
It is the tint of blue hue that lines the border of a sunset that mocks a sunrise as it bleeds orange,
The corners of undeveloped film exposed to light.
The string of pearls mixed with coiled silver that have no need to be laced by the same chain.
Mixed media splattered in disarray, leaving the bigger picture as an untold mystery.
Pricks on your finger from a sewing needle;
The dusty antiques in your mother’s basement, that you’ve been meaning to put up for auction.
A kindergartener’s fingerprints that make even the most childishly drawn tree look full with leaves.
The sheet music with stains of coffee from a night of successful orchestri.
The talent of swaying to a tune too beautiful and hushed to be spoiled.
The morbidity of your mind clouded with cataracts, distracting from the overall picture.
Freedom of body language that tells its own story.
Science behind modern inventions used while
time passes, spent correcting the “if” “will” and “want”s.
The joy it brings, and the suffering that allows one to spill their heart in a vibrant scene of unforeseen dreams,
playing trickery with the minds of the mean,
the silent beings with modesty certain – making for the art that is worth it.

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Idealist Expectations

An obscure thought written down on paper.
Am I just talking to myself or should I go crazy later?
Meaning in words, and words written with meaning;
Falling in love with the scenery.

This is my problem
I’m an idealist – why bother.
A belief that there’s something out there
waiting to hold my hand.
And to think that I’m a manic,
(It’s part of the panic)
Something that won’t let me grip onto reality.

Sure, it’s made up, a false portrayal of what I’ve always wanted.
If I had the chance, I’d make the most of the moment. 
Because I’m lost in a land full of let downs,
Only to be reminded
of my sanity
(or lack there of…)

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Half of a Heart

Even if you could see it, you’d hardly believe it –
Tales too wise to tattle.
And all the ramble
gets lost in translation…
Actions speak louder than words,
but when the words have no meaning,
What do you mean?

All that’s true is not told
It’s your soul that has been sold.
When you think you know what’s reality,
confidentiality no longer exists.
The lines begin to blur
Unofficial unclear; unsure.

And the love, it doesn’t mean the same
as it used to be a calling romance.
Right or wrong – it’s only black & white.
When the grays are merely static you never hear.

Don’t listen to your demons,
Damn are they clever.
They are always around –
I can’t wait to get out of this town.

Is something missing? It must be (your) heart.

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Fight the Good Fight or Be Fought

People are always coming and going,

Doing favors for them without even knowing;

Destroying what you currently hold with what you aught to want.

Better safe than sorry – Otherwise, you are not.



(These) gazes and stares into eyes

(Those which some would consider blank)

Cover up a story like a newspaper that has caught fire;

I have only one wish and desire: stay and love a while…

Learn what it is like being in a title.

The tidal waves storm over the rose colored haze,

And these glasses, they fog up quite often.


On the other end of this telephone conversation,

Usually I am in control of the radio stations…

…(And more static breeds louder voices, but meaning begins to fade out)…

Stagnant air – breath in deep and exhale.

But on the other hand,

Skips of the heart are rare.

May you agree, “This was meant to be.”

For the risks being taken are my allowance to be set free.


One always wishes for love and royalty,

Who would not want a paparazzi?

(Words explode with truth ladened with false justice.)

I feel as though I know where your head truly was.

A balance to the tracks that are displaced;

Security is what I lack.

(Secrecy is not tact)

Bought then sold –

Is the mirror image of my soul too cold?

(Please, for me darling, edit the way you speak before the barter turns stale)

It is much easier to be silent than master an attempt to be bold.

Into an unfinished story, dusted and only once told…

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This poem is to be turned into a song to be accompanied by an acoustic guitar. I was inspired to write this when I was at a cafe called Natura in Orlando, Florida. It was open mic night and a young Asian female, from a foreign country but living in Seattle, spilled her heart and shared her voice on stage. Her songs were beautiful, her musical talents were amazing and I was floored at how wonderfully she sang. This is only a rough draft, but I want to share my first version to show the process. I am not a song writer, nor do I even know how to play guitar. But this is to remind myself and others that anything is possible. One day, I will learn how to flawlessly strum a guitar. One day, I will record this. And one day, hopefully, I will be able to rack up the courage to sing in front of an audience, just like that girl did. I congratulate her on her bravery and a job well done.

For right now, I want to share a part of my story, some of my words and my wisdom with anyone willing to read this blog. I hope you enjoy. Any and all feedback is highly welcomed.

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Spiteful promises



Truth behind masks of serenity.


I did not plan to be;

Corrupted, interrupted by my own worst enemy

(and interpreted wrongly).

Pledges to purity

Won’t save goodness instilled beneath.

Let the spirit soar;

Run free,

Please, do not run away from me.

Begs to be certain, for sure;


Let nature take its course

(and choose wisely);

Making up for lost time,

Times infinity.

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Ashes From Ashes


Homicidal thoughts, you’ve been staying for too long,

(a while)

While the devil him/her/itself sends me adrift.

Parting tides,

Partaking sides.

Never meant to be thrown off a cliff,

(so dangerous)

But the sides of the mountain

Stay steadily rocking,

Destined to move in the slightest bit.

Why am I holding onto something that is so easy to throw away in an ashtray?

Latent with a film only found in a chain smoker’s throat,

And a cough that seeds a disease

Worth fighting through.


My mind takes to absence and gears towards flight,

While the guardian angels protect me at night.

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Where There Was Once Potential

If the soles of the glass slipper fit,

Well, the fuse may have burnt out…

But my heart has always been lit.

I’m a bit too serious, but I joke around a bit.

And I don’t want to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes,

I’d rather find my own to stretch loose.

And if you came knocking on my door,

Ready to throw off your brand new wool coat

Begging to let you in,

I wouldn’t.

Because this was your choosing.

The signs,

The spaces between the lines,

Begging me to rhyme for my muse.

I can’t afford to waste anymore time singing the blues.

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