A “Manifesto”: Writing about Writing

Alone at my desk (often a metaphorical desk), I attempt to release my troubles into hidden imagery and flowery metaphors all slapped onto a lyrical base that allows my ever flowing mind to tether itself into reality. Poetry isn’t meant to follow rules, or be confined by someone else’s idea about what “good” poetry is. Grow but don’t submit. If you love the way it sounds when lines are crafted and calculated to specific words and rhyme scheme, do it. If you love the way a poem comes together when you abandon rhyme and form, do it. Poetry is about self-expression. That means yourself, not the reader, not the critics, YOU.

Not everyone is going to like your poetry and not everyone is going to “get it”. However what does “getting it” even really mean? You adequately stiff armed the reader into understanding your poem as your wrote it? You made the poem so obviously singular that to not “get it” is impossible? I say abandon meaning entirely. I write my poems from my perspective, from a real and personal part of my brain that cannot ever be truly understood by anyone. I choose to hide in my poems, and for those who are brave enough, noble enough, screwed up emotionally enough (just kidding… kind of), I urge you to come find me. For everyone else, take what you need and leave what you don’t. As a reader, I do the same. I look for what I can of the poet, and then I filter through the imagery, rhyme, and sentiment applying it directly to my own life experience. Poetry is a scavenger hunt, choose your own adventure, epic quest for meaning in life. That means your life, not the writers, not the critics, YOURS.


On the Road with Billy Joel

A backpack, filled with a pair of jeans, an old t-shirt,

and a slurry of other random garments all tucked around

my ukulele, an archaic mechanism of sound with a single

disk present inside playing the sweetest soundtrack of an epic

existential crisis of a 20 something who will soon discover just how

little she really knows about anything, a musical journey from Georgia

to Kansas to Vienna to help propel my movement from Vegas to

Anchorage, three books, two poetry, EAP to dwell in my past

and Emerson to help me “be with” my journey and embrace my future,

one solid novel in hand, one to guide me on why I am on this

journey but surely not to guide me on how, my journey will not end with

me eating the wrong berries, in hindsight perhaps an Eddie Vedder CD

would have been great a juxtaposition for this trip,

my phone, notably absent, an unwelcome character in my heroic tale

of concurring my dependence and pulling my sword of self-identity

from the confines of the romanticized ideal of youthful over-exertion,

a notebook, not large or flashy, no cheesy sentiment of day seizing or

self love plastered on the front, I don’t need the reminder, this

is why I’m here, going there, possibly nowhere at all.

This is my journey.

Its only a dream, a plan, an escape from the dull dread of monotony and

stagnation. Someday I will find my Alaska where Vienna will surely be waiting.

Escaping Eden

It feels like I’ve been ignited, as I was just once before. Still waters move momentous, waves crashing to the shore. 
I wait as mountains move me toward where I wish to be,

And hope the past of prejudice won’t poison all the trees. 
I always saw the clouds and gloom, I never saw the sky.

Until the day I saw what my perspective tried to hide. 

Much of what I needed, were things I always knew.

A set of seedlings kept from water, so they never grew.
The ground beneath me rich with properties of life

But I continued searching for someone else’s light.

A flower deep inside me, growing deep inside my heart

I wonder if this time around it will still tear me apart.
I feel the trees take root, at the floor beneath my feet,

And watch as branches force the birds to all retreat.

This garden was dry and dying, long before I had arrived.

I’m sure my getting out, is the only reason I survived. 

Broken Pathways 

Two eyes like Phobos and Deimos, my mind their mother Mars.
The endlessness bounding onward beyond andromeda stars.
A galaxy all of my own, confined to the midnight hours.
Awake deconstructing thoughts, collapsing ivory towers.
A land thought to be baron, a civilization hiding in fear.
A planet of things left unfinished, a wasteland of broken gears.
I found an old rocket ship, but all its parts were out of place.
Hopeful to escape the lonesome nights, leaving but a trace.
The glow from distant stars, showed the twinkle of a key.
As I started to brush away the sand it grew into a tree.
I climbed through broken branches moving with all my might.
When I reach the top I was greeted by a tiny orb of light.
I grabbed it in my hands and placed it in a jar.
Unsure of its purpose or mine, but it’s the best I have so far.
I took it to the old rocket ship and set it free into the air.
It whizzed around the engine leaving nothing but a flare.
The engines been ignited, so I climbed my way inside.
Flying to me is foreign, but at least I can say I tried.
It started off the ground, blowing debris and a mass of sand.
I wish I knew which way to go so maybe I’d understand,
Which path will finally take me where I wish to go,
Or which path will make me stagnant or which will help me grow.
Perhaps I’ll let the universe decide the final fate I seek.
Perhaps the decision was never mine, accepting sweet defeat.
I fly into the distance, with an end nowhere in sight.I let the universe guide my hands. I’ll just enjoy the flight. 

True Intentions

It wasn’t like it all started this week

Not for me, I’m assuming not for him.

I’ve always felt it, but we never spoke

Not about that bubble, our bubble.

Where the haunting of our current love

Could not disrupt our emerging one.

I’ve always felt it, but we never spoke 

Not about how similar we were or 

About how the happiest I’d be in months

Was just catching up on the phone.

Or how anytime things got tough we’d run 

To each other, but we’d hide under our 

Veil of friendship, our little bubble.

Where we’d act like intention was innocent

But I’ve always felt for you what I feel now

Timing has just never been convenient.

When things dissolved for one, they’d flourish

For the other. A tennis match where there’s

only one racket that we pass back and forth. 

But I finally found another racket. 


A little doll with her pieces all scattered

Alone in the woods, but none of that mattered,

For broken apart she meant nothing at all,

But all of that changed early one fall.

When a little boy came with string in his hand,

A glow in his eye, and a quiet command.

He tied her back up, with love and with string

And when he was done, he started to sing

“Oh beautiful doll, with a heart that is true

What would I do if I never found you?”

The little doll thought, if only he knew,

How much and how deeply she needed him too.

Their love kept on growing until late in the spring,

Then the doll learned what heartbreak could bring.

The glow faded still, he just couldn’t stand

The way she looked with her head in her hands,

So he rolled up his string in a tight little ball

And walked up the hill, leaving nothing at all.

Just a sad little doll, her pieces all scattered,

Alone once again, as if she never mattered.

Love the Octopus

A feeling of calm bred in chaos.

A feeling of love dipped in tar.

A temple with walls all corroded,

From acid still thick in your heart.


A feeling of being without you.

A feeling of crumbling trust.

An echo of friends all with praises,

Dissolved in a pit of disgust.


A feeling of waiting forever.

A feeling of shattering glass.

A house with stuff just like ours,

That you burst in one final blast.