Blue-Grey Iris
Credit: Isaiah Stephens

If she only knew how beautiful she looks;
how her grey-blue eyes turn different shades
of blue as tears drip down her face.

As much as I want to help,
I can’t comfort her;
I’m selfish. I can’t stand to see
her eyes turn back into a normal shade of gray.

I need her to cry, so I can
write words about her from a distance;
personify her beauty at her darkest moment.

I love to watch her eyes
speak of emotion through color.
Damn, I love her when she cries.


Artist’s Palette

It’s fun to imagine
the taste and touch of a colors,
and not just their appearance.

Red is said to be hot and burning with passion,
but mixed with black, the color of fear,
no one would give it a second glance.

But what if red is ice-cold and blue
is ice-hot then maybe colors need
more than just sight.

As judged on appearance alone
it would be a terrible, terrible life
for a world full of colors

colors down drain

Fallin’ Star

falling star colors

Once bright,
bold, and beautiful.
Now dark,
and, diminished.

Its time in the sky
has come, and gone.

It’s hard to stand out
among the millions when you’re
a tiny red dwarf.

No matter the company,
no matter the odds, shine on.
Shine like a supernova.

Without your help,
the world is darkness with:

no way home,
no escape, and
no one to shine along with

House of Light

light house sunrise

I’ve been searching for a lighthouse,
one on the beach,
above crystal-clear waters.

It’s the lighthouse I need
and its entire purpose
is all that I am not.

A lighthouse is never lost,
never scared, and
never lacking purpose.

Its job is to guide, bring boats
back to shore, and help the lost.

It’s the lighthouse I desire
for its ability
to make find myself, once again.

We Never Existed

disappear girl






What if no one was there
and it was only
you and I, but neither of us existed.

I could write this poem
page after page,
forever and ever,
but it wouldn’t matter
because it was all a dream
or better yet, a mirage.

What if what I’m saying makes no sense.
What if I’m crazy?
What if I’m not?


Alone in the Woods

big foot woods






See these fingers,
see these hands
they’re like yours,
waiting to be held
warmed to the touch.

Give me a smile,
give me a wave
not just a flash.

I’ll be your travel guide
follow my foot steps
down to the riverside
we’ll lay

watch the sky turn orange
count the constellations, debate
if we’ll ever get that far

trade me your freedom and
I’ll give you mine

Nothing Remains


Don’t push me from behind
and think that’s okay;
I don’t need help,
I’ll get there
on my own.

See me now,
take a mental picture,
never again.

Now, I’ll be
where I want to go
and when I get there
I will make it
where I want to be.

For my memory,
nothing will remain
except this note
posted up on your door

3 A.M. Train


As the train engine sounds
he hides under his covers
fighting off insomnia
and the inability to dream.

In his reality,
he dreams of boarding the train,
chasing his dreams along the tracks.

parallel and narrow,
long and direct
with many stops in the way;
he can’t wait.

He needs to know if it’s worth it,
if he will ever find his true worth,
and his reason for existence.

He lays
night after night:

waiting for 3 A.M.,
waiting for the train,
waiting for the chance

to turn his insomnia
into dreams of reality

Post #100

Thank you!

First, I would like to thank any one who has ever stumbled upon my blog and read any of my posts.

Number-100When I began this blog a couple of years ago I never expected that it would turn out the way it is now.

This blog is a timeline of my life and I like looking back on my older posts and seeing how much my writing and I have changed over time.

I have been able to connect with so many others bloggers on here, it really is amazing. I appreciate all of the feedback and opinions that I get on my writing as it keeps me motivated to keep on posting, thank you (again).

Sorry, for the boring post, but I wanted to take the time out to thank everyone.

Here is to several hundred more! (:

Spilled Ink







It’s the
blotted all over
perfectly lined
that makes
black ink’s
dark existence
its own
distinct kind of beauty

its mistake
of being
spilled over
across the table
will push it to
adapt and live
in a new environment
while forcing it to
tap into
its true
inner beauty

the type of beauty
no artist could ever
perfectly rearrange
on his eyes

Big Hand, Little Hand

Grandfather used to tell me
never race around the clock.

He said, at midnight
a bell will sound and
turn a day into a memory.

I ignore him
and chase the hand in front of me
only to catch it for a minute
twenty-two times a day.

For when I do,
I say not a word.
We exchange glances and
continue our separate ways.

As I reach midnight
and the bell rings once more,
I finally realize why
Grandfather said what he did.

We can go around and around
all we want to
reaching stops along the way,
but it’s only a single lap
of a never-ending race