A Toast

A parched throat makes for difficult speech… Instead of clearly communicating, you find yourself throat clearing, self jeering, eyes watering, mind wondering when this hacking will begin departing, all the while knowing that – it’s really not attractive.  You can see into souls through eye windows, the dimming glow as their response to your unintended show… It almost does not matter what you know, because like a dam, your words have lodged in your throat blocking your flow… Releasing spittle and foam at random intervals – overall damage is minimal, but the purpose in which you originally opened your mouth to complete has died all of its lives, and it’s game over – Nintendo.

But you know that it is not your fault… You needed just a bit of moisture, as some fine cuisine needs only a mere dash of salt… But without Mrs. Dash, appearance is divorced from success, like dollar signs taken off of cash… The end result being paper scraps… Tidbits, leftovers, unwanted – anything synonymous with trash… Because anything not done wholly simply will… not… last.  … And it is ironic because you can feel the tangibility of what it is you want to say deep inside your very being… Some wondrous thing – or perhaps simple – yet nevertheless unexpressed that only your eyes are seeing.  Ahhh if only you didn’t have a noose delivery!

A tendency to get choked up from the throat up when it’s something vital from your heart that needs expressing!  Vision is both a curse and a blessing… You wish that you could just pop a pill discreetly, or take a sip of some magical serum, to free you from this self induced delirium, after-all what good are above average thoughts if you must live in fear of them…?  … Looking… Searching… Waiting… Your soul knowing… That there is an answer… There is a way out of this moat… There is a cure – there is an antidote… There is a little known diner on the outskirts of town… A little further than just a ways away, but closer than too long would take… Open to any who care to pass through its doors into peace, and reverberating revelation… Who have an appetite that yields only unto satiation…

In this diner, the sparkling diamond glasses are for every occasion – for every moment in life is special.  Here – there is no such thing as wasted. No concept of the term “outdated,” no reference for existing without existence and purpose being mated… It’s not Heaven – but it surely is not earth… Just a small, easily missed diner… The menu?  Your heart’s desire.  The sign hanging over the counter only says “Higher.”  Order whatever you like, with whatever sides, anything you can think in your mind can be made manifest, for the deep recesses of thought – are who you are.

… There is but one drink served here however, and accompanies every meal… It unstops your throat, and has a rather curious feel… Smooth going down, but it can make your heart race, or your body shake… Tears may stream down your face – but tongues are always loosened, and obstacles are parted, that one may behold one’s goals… The ears become sensitive to the word “go,” ambition oblivious to the word no, and all too often the diner echoes with fearless declaration of “look out below!!!”  This – this special drink, birthed from the progression of time to meet human needs like dough… This elegant glass of shimmering power that can unblock your throat… THIS – is wine for the soul.

~The Wordsmith

Cliff Fall

I get to the lip of the cliff, but I just won’t finish.

Invisible hands come and rip me off of it. My invisible hands are good for grasping dreams, but can’t seem to help me when I’m falling. When in reality, do as reality does, so in order not to get screwed I climb my mountains with rubber gloves. 

I’m perfectly insulated, and completely ill equipped.

I’m like a moving target on an underwater ship… my dark clone doesn’t bother shooting at me because I’ll drown as it is… my dark clone is me… Eminem’ s evil twin… I live to give him existence.

My fingers are bleeding again and I’m slippin…

Gruesome Isolation

This is the beginning of where the end hates its start. You keep your monsters under your bed? Mine pay rent right in my heart! It’s hard to believe my demons can live in my blood stream, but when threads defy seams it seems that’s why I can never swim upstream.


I’m a two winged bird madly in love with gravity. When I look up at the sky, the earth just slaps me. Every time I pull away, the ground roughly grabs me. The roughness is all bite with no bark, and all these naked trees fallin on me leave a mark. Tryna do right, but progress cuts the lights out with the scissors that I used in art class to illustrate my life’s route.

Everybody wants what I got, but don’t wanna pay me to get it… Love the way I live, but critiquing every imperfect feeling.

Well I’m feeling like an uncensored ceiling- so high and disconnected, profanity is the only vanity where I’m pro myself and still have fans that can see me. Like I’ll stay cursed if I don’t, but I’ve never been a sketched etch to waste a rhyme, so I won’t.

Just know that I’m alone in this boat.

Everybody’s lookin for escape, I’m just tryna be the goat.

Only Typing

Sometimes, you’ve got to slow down and let the poetry catch you.

Even though the sunrise glides while I sleep, I still think it happens too fast because I miss it daily. By the time I awake, the miracle has already had its happy ending. Eyes blink open, muscles flex, legs stretch and technology prepares my breakfast- like a preprogrammed fairy tale born of roman, mythical imagination my life can be considered the ultimate in poetic statements…

And daily I miss virtually all of it… Like that small family photo tucked inside my wallet- I see what I love so much that I forget to stop and love it…

Sometimes, you’ve got to slow down and let the poetry catch you.


This is what I’m thinking to myself as I lay on my bed watching my beautiful girlfriend puttin work in on her laptop as she sits in front of my couch. At first I had my eyes closed in peaceful pseudo-slumber, but then they popped open and I rolled over and looked at her… I mean reeeallly looked at her. Sittin there all lovely and focused with frown lines of productive concentration creasing her mouth… And it dawned on me- I don’t look at her that much. This may sound weird, but if you’re tryna live holy then you know what I’m talkin about…

And it was in that precious, admiration filled moment… That poetry caught me.

A sense of awe overtook me, and words that I already knew took on brand new meaning… The live right fight can pay off in powerfully small ways it seems… Poetry overtook me. ME. The poet. The Wordsmith. Overtaken masterfully by the mastery of my own element…

And she was only typing.


monarchThere are some amazing truths at work in this world.

Take the butterfly for example.  Bypass, if you can, the smooth glint and grin of tilted wings harmonizing with the wind.  Look beyond how it floats through gravity’s realm, deftly impervious to its clutches.  See deeper than its origin story of predestined transformation.  Know all of that, and see none of it.  Look at the butterfly… and see- a butterfly.

The butterfly is an amazing truth.


Because it is a butterfly.

It is a self contained, blossoming bastion of unique beauty.  Its very not-contingent-upon-your-approval existence is, itself, bold attitude defining it outside of its attributes.  Look from afar through a telescope; look up close with a microscope.

Same miracle.  Same butterfly.  Same created existence wrapped up in something that both you and I lack.

The closest we’ll ever get to being what the butterfly is is through idiomatic literary extravagance.  Metaphors, similes, and poetical analysis analogous to dimensional paralysis- we must freeze the moment we enter the butterfly’s world, and create a memorable memory to cling to when time catches us back up again.

There are some amazing truths at work in this world.

More than there is time to tell of them.

But the butterfly is one, and your neighbor is two.

Just a couple, out of a long line, of synchronous, disparate truths… and amazing to boot.

Duck Eyes

I’ve been ducking tears so long I failed to realize I’d slowly begun falling in love with heartache.

These tear ducts have become quacks like real ones… Because before, their actions meant I had learned something, but now the tear drop action just means I’m actin. Theatrical social performance to verify that I too have vilified passion, and that love in any form causes me to squeeze my eyes shut and move on past it.

The idea of falling in love is propped up by the idea of not falling- so when the opportunity for potential authenticity comes calling I doubtfully stand my ground until the sound of my pounding heart crashing into the street like a star knocked off a Christmas tree sounds through my being with resounding confidence.

Once again the tear has won.


Though I hear the voices of many here, when I open my eyes it’s only me here.

The drops splash down out of hopelessness from whence they come, and some instinct compels me to duck…

But because I never actually moved, my tearful addiction overtakes me in a rush and I slide down with the emotional flush…

A waddling prisoner of these tear ducts.