a good day


when the day comes to a close i just want to love you in a way that is foreign to anything this world has ever seen before. i want to sleep a little closer to the things in your heart. and i want you to lay a little closer to my dreams.

that would be a good day.




Sometimes I cry thunder storms. I’m drowning inside, every inch of me pouring frightening blue.
The first time I viewed myself as worthless, I staggered into the bathroom, I shoved my face under the running faucet. I didn’t blink. I splashed the mirrors with drops of anger, walked to my bedroom, hiding every piece of mistake and ugliness behind closed door, every shred of ugly duckling inside me. We all have moments where we just want to be erased.
Sometimes I wish I’d been drawn in pencil.
When you’re alone in your room, walls, music, and lamps all become your best listeners. They agree with what your spirit is trying to say, they are sometimes more understanding than any counselor.
Time went by and I remained prisoner to my own body. Tell me, what doctor has the cure for that?
The sun painted morning orange across the horizon, and when I awoke from my slumber, you were there. Standing over me. Naturally, I panicked. I pulled the blankets over my head, praying you might vanish from my bedroom, but you remained. Instead I prayed that I might disappear, that scales might be placed over your eyes. You just kept staring at me, all of me.
I think this world would be a better place if we were all blind, if we stopped seeing with our eyes.
You gently peeled the sheets back to the edge of my bed, until I was fully visible before you, wretched and helpless, a boy in a man’s body, all my ugly placed before your sight.
Do you believe in fairy tales? That even the most gentle eyes can make an orphan feel at home?
My eyes began to flood down my cheekbone hills, then you knelt beside me, kissed the wet off my face. And in that moment, I knew what it felt to be loved by beauty.
No, we are not swans, but we’re also not as ugly as we think we are. 

a lesson to be learned


When we are kids we are taught how to pick things up.

It’s an easy task to teach, it’s an even simpler task to get the hang of. We hone the art of picking things up very quickly, and as soon as we do, we spend the rest of our lives

                                                                                   trying to let things…



anchors aweigh




Here’s the thing, I don’t mind being alone–is there really safety found in numbers? — but when you leave the room, I miss you so much it pierces the inner depths of my heart, and I miss how I feel when you’re closer than my skin.


No, I wouldn’t say you complete me. But you do make me better. And I’ve spent my entire life in search of a better version of me.


Who knows, maybe I should have been looking for the person who believed I already was that better version–


Your very existence saves me. Funny, I didn’t even know I was lost.




I’m standing as tall as a Californian Redwood tree, but inside I am slowly rotting away. I am crumbling, peeling, and beginning to uproot and…

…do you even care?

I’m sick of drinking the salt that drips from eyes, would you fill your cup with my tears?

I’ve tried to wake the jackals, but they didn’t seem to notice me. When I screamed at them, they just yawned. And when I blew them kisses, they refused to growl. Is it crazy for me to be chasing this kind of attention? Or am I just stupid for not knowing how to get it? Maybe if I whiten my teeth, or chisel my body out of marble. Would that help? What if I dazzle you with my wit? I can write a book titled Jesus and the Joker, and act out scenes from Jekyll and Hyde. In my own way, I’m being held behind bars, so why won’t anyone pay my bail? Rejection can hurt. But being ignored and feeling worthless is a prison – I’m curious, how many of us are serving a life sentence?

Our world spins upside down and sometimes we have to lose our grip on the things we value in this life in order to grab on to true life. And Inside all of us, we know the truth of life…that there’s more than the next new cell phone or gadget or relationship…and that our heart beats in time with the sunset.

So why does the sun seem to be killing me? I’ve tried to sink my roots into fresh soil, but I’m too dried out from all my years. I know there are people who love me, but I just want to love myself. Not on a shallow, superficial level. No, I just want to feel like my breaths matter to your air.

We are saints and whores, beggars and kings. Were we created for rain?

No, the rain was created for us. So pour upon my dry and thirsty soul.

Even dead trees have roots.

circus inside


I twisted the lid off of my heart and a circus came fumbling and jumping out. Painted faces, confetti, water flowers and burning hoola hoops. I never knew someone could be mocked to death.

Am I just another punch line? Sometimes it feels like the whole world is laughing at me.

When I was seventeen I pulled a prank on my friend. We were sitting in a café and when he wasn’t looking I took his bottle of tomato juice, poured it out, and filled it with Tabasco sauce. He apparently had caught a glimpse of me doing this and while I was in the bathroom he smothered the inside of my grilled cheese sandwich with that same bottle of Tabasco sauce.

Guess who became the jester after all?

Of course I want to be taken seriously. But I’d prefer to have someone who wants to seriously take me.

Life sometimes feels like a big joke, and remembering the punch line is almost impossible. It takes almost a lifetime to figure it out. You don’t mind if I spend a few decades trying to solve it, do you?

In the meantime, I’ve decided not to wash your makeup off my collar, because I don’t want to forget you. You’re the only one willing to take a flying pie in the face for me, the only one who doesn’t laugh at the circus inside of my heart.

the whisper and the clamor


I sometimes wonder if I’m made of plastic. Like I am a mannequin more than I am a man. The world clothes me in a way that is seen as popular, positions my limbs, polishes the color out of my eyes, and paints over the expression on my face. And I let it happen. I let them do it. Life is moving too fast and I seldom remember how to slow down. It’s not a sin to stop rushing, and saints never made it to heaven because they worked their fingers down to the bone.

So can you tell me why I keep wearing my fingernails down?

While I’m eating dinner, the television is on in the background, silverware scraping the food off my plate as I’m downloading the newest and hottest app on my iPhone. I’m a technological savage. Yes, my body is present, but is my mind really there?

I dwell in the past and I think way too much about the future. Word on the street is the present is nice this time of year.

It’s well into the night hours. I don’t have a clock around me, but my bones can tell time. My back is aching, my eyes are sinking into my skull, and my skin has tiny roadways etched all over. What can I say? Life wears you down; it takes a toll on your spirit. Look, I’m hard and rough all over, but inside I’m as fragile as a newborn. I can go about an hour before I feel like I need food, and ten minutes until I’m suffocating from a lack of love.

I appreciate oxygen, but I only have trouble breathing when you’re not around. So sit next to me, let me kiss the wrinkles off your nose. Let me taste a little bit of wonder. I want to brush the melody off your lips and embark in duet together.

Yes, I’m a plastic, department store man. My humanness has long rubbed off. But maybe you can make this mannequin’s heart beat again. I’ll bring the whisper, you bring the clamor.