100 Blank Pages

I have $12 to my name;
($11, after this notebook)
6 black pens,
and 100 blank pages.
A clean slate.

I own 1 piece of furniture;
(in an empty apartment)
4 dress shirts,
and all the space I don’t need.
A fresh start.

28 years of emotions;
(to understand none of them)
plus 17 synonyms,
and they are all unsure.
A new person.

I can remember phone numbers,
but not birthdays,
Pity the starving artist,
but not empathize,
Start over,
but not anew.

I have,
blue lines
and black ink,
an absence of your presence,
and new wings of red and gold.

I have,
100 blank pages,
and the only thing,
I can think to write,
is your name.


Another Fridge Poem


Pale Machine,
Full of not a living thing.

Cadavers, corpses, and the dead,
Show me your graves.

A soulless feast;
taste flesh,
chew power,
take will.

Make me alive.

You would be 5


When asked about today,
I just honestly,
don’t know what to say.
Parents should never see their kid,
light smothered,
then covered
with a lid.
So I don’t whisper,
or even shout.
But just so,
you won’t ever doubt…
I wear your name,
on my chest.
Right there,
Beside my heart.
Even though you rest,
We will never be apart.

I wish,

I wish, through wisps of smoke.
A candle, A flame,
Waxen monuments hint.
Counting displays, a time frame.

I wish, on copper folk.
A penny, A cent,
Concrete pilfering glint.
Construct reveals, a plea spent.

I wish, with rocks and dust,
Streaking through the midnight blue.
Light no longer bold,
Grounded down to rest.

I wish, by whitened tufts,
Drifting clean of emerald green.
Dark roots have no hold,
Flying towards their quest.

I wish, using red.
Illuminate eleven.
Pairs of one.
Minutes, in align.

I wish, breaking bone.
Murdering marrow.
Spare no one.
Damage, cross the line.

I wish,
I wish for you.