They asked him,
"How does one become a poet?"

He answered,
with the weight of stars in his voice:

"If you can read
the lines etched on your mother’s hands,
and the furrows folded between her eyes
then you are already a poet.

Go now
and savor the journey into madness."

Memories.
They are my most precious possessions,
Yet my most terrifying regrets.
They lift the curves of my mouth,
Yet haunt the cells of my mind.
They bring back all my regrets,
And they help make the path of my future smoother.
Memories bring wisdom.

Cool breeze on my skin
Night drifts in to fill the room
Comfort to my dreams

I didn’t want
to wake up today,
As I look
into the mirror,
I see myself,
Rugged, pieces
Here and there,
Almost handsome,
Almost there
But good enough,
I get out the door,
Jump into my car,
Notice the tags
Still say 2024
As I press
The gas pedal
And feel the machine
Alive once more,
I have to get
around that
Some day.

A strange pattern for
writing has come
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.

I can't get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away,
or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.

I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don't cry and try not to worry.
I'll bring you to life.