I. Will. Find. You.


I have been looking for you,


You sly fox,
You ambiguous, scaly, slow-moving amphibian.
It’s no surprise you scare people.
With your twisting tongue and your changing colors.
A real master of disguise.


And when i need you most you are hiding
in between experience
and the present,
underneath a layer of someone else’s fingerprints.

I hate when other people use you.

I thought you were mine,
But you have slept in the pages of another’s book.


Sure other poems have been written about your deeper meaning,
Etymologists love studying the depths of curvy body.
I even heard that Shakespeare knew your spot.
And he would whisper sweet lexis in your ear.
Verbal cunnilinguistics.

You silky seductress.
You have played this game of hard to get for too long.
You have slept with both friend and foe.
But it’s time for you to make an appearance
in between the soft sheets of my composition book.

Because I am a still a boy who will always be searching for the words that will make him a man.
A husband who will always be searching for the words that have the same ring as those wedding bells.
A poet who wants to hear that 4 and a half second silence after saying the right words,
in the right combination,
making the audience forget they are supposed to be clapping.

And I am pretty sure
you are pretty close to me right now


And this is a little embarrassing but,
I have Ransacked and pillaged through everything I have to find you.

I have checked every Journal I own.
And found nothing
but questions and scripture.

I have checked every text in my cellular phone.
I found nothing
but keyboards with pictures.

I desperately searched in my closet alone
I found nothing
But sneakers and sweaters

I have checked every junk drawer in my home.
but tools and letters.

I will find you


I will find you.
Even if it takes the


-Reese Weatherspoon

Dead Butterflies Don’t Cure Cancer


She says she’s always two seconds away from crying,

two breaths away from screaming and
two steps away from dying.

She’s not wrong.

The chemo breaks down her body daily.
If she were to get a fever, she would be a goner.

So what do you say to the cancer girl who cut off all her hair,
because watching it fall out in clumps has started getting to her?

She told me she went to see a therapist today.
The therapist said,
“you have cancer because your sad. You have stage two lymphoma because your depressed and its starting to infect every part of your living being”.

The therapist kept a glass box of dead butterflies, she said it was “décor”.

She placed the butterflies in front of cancer girl’s face and asked,
“Do they make you sad?
…These butterflies can’t fly away from their problems.” 

She would never stop repeating the world sad.

Everything cancer girl is going through can be fixed if only these butterflies somehow resurrected and flew away.

Something cancer girl could never do,
Something the butterflies could never do.

                                                      dead butterflies don’t cure cancer. 

And cancer girl is doing alright,
she’s still alive.

She may not be a butterfly,
but she has learned to fly.


For the Days You Don’t Feel Like Enough.


If the Moon asked the Earth: Am I enough? I know, I am so small, I was part of something bigger once, but I am broken and cratered and dead.
Am I Enough?

The Earth would laugh and reply: Yes, you are small, but we were once one, and now you orbit me and we cast shadows on each other like two lovers intertwined. Before you I had no waves or flow, I didn’t have the rushing of the sea, and when you’re close my tides rise to greet you.
Of course you are enough.

If the Earth asked the Sun: Am I enough? You are 100x the body I will ever be. I am fragile and delicate. My plates are volatile and I crack and crumble from the turmoil I feel inside me. I’ve held so much life, but I cant seem to hold on to it. You are so large, you keep my life abundant. My forests green and my waters warm. Without you I’d be ice and rock. I’d be lifeless.
Am I enough?

The Sun would laugh and reply: Yes, you are fragile, but you have fought and struggled against the tremors that shake your core. Your tectonics may fracture and bend your surface but you are beautiful. You are stronger than you think and so brave. You have held onto the beauty of life like no other child in this star system and I am so proud.
Of course you are enough.

If the Sun asked the Galaxy: Am I enough? I am still young, but I feel so old. My color grows weaker every million years, I am so afraid of death. I fear that once I fade into my deepest of reds and I sputter my last solar flare, I will destroy the ones I love. Even when I am weak, I am violent. I hurt others with my blinding anger and heat, I am ultraviolet and my supernova violence will destroy my beloved system.
Am I enough?

The Galaxy will laugh and reply: Yes, you are growing old, but you still have so much to learn and see. You are warm and brilliant and beautiful. And though one day you will implode and all that was here for billions of years will go with you. It will not be lost. For in space, you can never truly disappear forever. One day, billions of years from now, you will regather and collect and begin anew. Young and bright and full of love.
Of course you are enough.

So if you, star child, truly believe you are not enough, ask the universe: Am I enough?

And the Universe will laugh and reply: My child, the probability of your existence is 1 in 400 trillion, you are made of stardust and 13.8 billion years of love, of course you are enough.

-Jane Doe

SenTimental SomeTimes


Your picture on my wall reminds me of a time I didn’t care about you.
Lost in activity, Playing with Legos.
I could have built you a colorful brick home with many rooms,
a large backyard with a blue lake and a white boat
And a front porch where you could sit and just slow down, because you,
You move too fast.

But I wasn’t aware of you when my creations kept me busy,
and my mind wasn’t ready to embrace your concept.
And now it seems the more I understand you,
The more you seem to slip from my grasp.

Silly girl, You must bathe in baby oil baths,
Because I can’t get my arms around your waist and whisper calmly in your ear,
“You keep moving when the rest of us are still. Sit with me darling.
Tell me about your day darling.
Tell me about your long night and the moonlight, and the stars bright,
and how you felt when you saw the sun peek over the horizon darling.”

But you don’t concern yourself with the trivial past.
You press on, counting, counting, counting as you move toward forever.
You don’t think you will ever die.
And that’s fine,
none of us do until it’s too late.

I wonder when I take my last breath,
If you will even cry for me darling?
Or will you watch silently from the corner of that fluorescent room?
I hate the linoleum floors, they scare me.
And I hate the thought of losing you even more.

Because you are my beacon sweet one.
Your guiding light moves me.
You taught me how to long for something.
How to yearn for the future.

Remember when we booked that cruise, my love?
And how I told you every night before bed that I wish it would be tomorrow?
I spent my days daydreaming of sun decks and daiquiris,
looking over the ledge at nothing.
I spent my nights dreaming of white sand beaches,
and busy bazaars in the streets of Belize.

I wish we could have connected more that weekend, beautiful.
Too concerned with itineraries and next stops.
Your face remained white when we disembarked.
You forgot to soak up the sunshine, darling.

I don’t know why you still get to me.
I still think about you constantly.
Images of your body everywhere.
I see you every morning when my alarm goes off.
I see you looking back at me on my drive to work.
I even saw you last week as I sat in a dingy waiting room
while oil stained hands fixed the vehicle I use to try to escape you.

It’s odd, how the ones we think we love the most end up hurting us.
But maybe you can heal me.
You play a great game of hard to get.
But someday I swear I’ll reach for your second hands and you will clutch mine back.
I’m counting the minutes until I can count the hours with you, darling.
And maybe one day we can stop this vicious cycle.

Maybe one day we can stop this vicious cycle.

Maybe one day we can stop this vicious cycle.

Reese Weatherspoon


Don’t Worry it’s About Knitting


As I hold my needles,
my pikes,
my daggers.
I feel the thin threads pull against my fingers as I wrap them around the needle.

I stab one needle under the yarn of the other,
wrap the thread around the needle,
I’m practically choking it,
then I push the thread off of the first needle with the second.

A stitch has been made.
I repeat this motion many times,
eventually I finish the line.

The sheer repetitiveness of the motion makes it addictive,
it feels like I’m doing lines of a drug,
not stitching lines of yarn with thick needles.

I went too fast,
I dropped a stitch,
while the action is silent,
and no one notices,
I hear the stitch scream as it falls into the gap between my needles.

I can feel my heart stop as I see it happen,
it’s like everything’s in slow motion,
I slowly and carefully find the dropped stitch,
and I slide it back onto my needle,
I had just barely avoided disaster,
for if I had lost that dropped stitch,
my entire piece would have been ruined.

Nonetheless, I continue my task.
Stab, choke, push, stab choke, push.
Forever and ever.

13 years


Year 1
You left in the early morning sunrise.
Coffee on your breath nicotine on your tongue.
You didn’t kiss me goodbye.

Year 2
A year passed and autumn leaves blow through town like you did on route 75.
I thought I saw your face again,
Reflected through the window of your favorite ice-cream shop.

Year 3
Feb 10th the anniversary of when you left.
Bottle of champagne to mask the sting.
A girl’s head lays on my thighs, I know I’m going to have to leave in the morning.

Year 4
They say time heals all wounds but last time I checked.
I’m still bleeding from the inside and its bubbling out of my mouth.
You always said my words weren’t as pretty as others girls.

Year 5
I called in sick today,  last night.
Your buddy got drunk and crashed on my bathroom floor.
Between throwing up and sobbing he says its time he visits you.

Year 6
I’m dating new people, ones who won’t leave me like you.
And I know that shitty to say but it’s true.
Her name is Summer and she will never be as good as you.

Year 7
Breakups are hard is that why you left like a coward.
Summer packed up her things from my apartment this week.
Guess she knew I would never get over you.

Year 8
I want to start a family, it’s horrible I know.
But I’m nearing my 30s regretfully so.
Who says I can’t do it on my own?

Year 9
Your favorite color has always been green.
Green like the apple that we used to pick from trees.
Grass is green. I wonder if any grew over your grave.

Year 10
Me and that buddy who got shitfaced on my floor,
Have come to the agreement that we will be more.
He says he doesn’t want to replace you but its been 10 long years.

Year 11
He proposing to me under moonlight.
It’s nothing compared to the measures you went to.
But what me and him have isn’t love so I guess it will do.

Year 12
We had a child, a baby boy.
We brought him to your grave.
He is named after you my dear.

Year 13
It’s been a 13 years since that day a month since I thought about you.
But a blue bird flew by my window.
And I remembered that day, the day you left for work, sped down the highway and died.

13 years.
13 long years.
I think I’m ready to let your memory fly away.

– Atlas