12:20am

You are not who you think you are.
You are not who you were.
You are not who you'll become.
You are placed in each moment,
like a single frame of a film reel.
Every second is rebirth into the next
and the end result,
I think, is what they call
the bigger picture.

2:58am

The things I love, I count in threes:
A splash of milk in my coffee or tea
Rain and fog with peeks of sun
A brisk walk, a skip or run -
Down the street with the sidewalk cracks -
Children's chalk art, railway tracks
And when I step off the train
I'm met with a smile, kiss and embrace
Strangers show their toothy grin,
When I leave to let them in
The chilly lips of the wind
Kiss my cheeks like the closest of kin
And that lovely, knitted, woolen scarf
Which gently hangs upon my neck
Brings warmth and comfort,
like the arms of the beloved I've not yet met
And there I am before the day
Before the work and rest and play
Before all the those things we do
And all those things we must get through
For me just to simply be,
I count the things I love in threes
One, so I shall not forget
that I am ever humbly blessed
Two, reminds me I'm not yet done,
and there is always more than one
Three, to stretch beyond belief
what it means to fight defeat --
in the greyest of the morning skies,
amongst the crowd of passer-bys,
and the unrest of a sleepless eye,
amongst the grief, sorrow and apathy,
I keep a little skeleton key
in a bundle of 1, 2, 3
That opens to a freer me

4;50pm - My Apologies to Wordsworth

The art of bad poetry is,
the awkward lines,
the pathetic rhymes,
the nonsensical metaphors,
the cliches, the hyperboles,
and the liberal use of what it means,
to be "free verse".

I am repeat offender to all of the above
and honestly, more.
Blame it on my education,
or lack of appreciation
of metre and scansion.
Yes, I wish I knew more.

But above all,
I will transfer what is written,
on the skin of my heart
to the skin of the blank page.

For what is poetry
but the messy transplant of
emotions and connections
from the internal to the external.

I apologize to Chaucer and Wordsworth,
Pope and Shakespeare,
and those other gods of ink and paper.

I am young and shallow,
Brainless and unfocused,
And I have yet to experience,
the heavy novel idea of humanity.

My pen will only write what is in the deepest part of me.
And for that, I offer my sincerest apologies.

2:06 am - Bookmark

To share one moment is simple.
It's like a folded page where we both stop
and say "Oh yeah, we'll return here later --
We'll remember this turned over landmark
for when we want to remember where it all began."
but, more often than not, it's when it all stopped
because we never went back, not once,
to turn over to the next page,
to read through the plot,
and get to know our characters,
the subtext, the metaphors,
the running themes.
What's left is a creased corner;
an imprint of a memory.
Even if when we try to flatten it out,
the line proves stubborn and indignant.
So then with eyes forward,
we are sentenced to the next sentence.
Then comes another moment,
another other --
another permanent crease left by the wayside.
And so it goes, till the whole story seems marked,
by forgotten friends and faces without names.

We could leave it there
and that would be okay.
It would be fine by me,
to have disconnected pages
attached to a binding spine,
and I could call that my story.
Why not? It's mine.
But I am told of a myth where lies some truth in it,
that one day there'll be another other,
who is unlike any other I've ever known,
who leaves no creases on some page,
and gladly reads cover to cover.

8:33pm

A small answer is a brash reply
To the question that, in comparison,
Is indeed sizable in depth,
width and thought.