Your laugh used to
Synchronize with mine,
What seemed inseparable
Was just the trick of time.

11 years ago
I was walking on top
Of a small wall
Along the sea.

I tripped
And fell
And smashed the back of my head
On a sharp rock.

I came to
With my father and mother
Looming over my face.
Now that I think about it
It was pretty convenient
That they would find me there.

I have had a good life,
But to me,
It has been too good.
I have done nothing to deserve
Anything that I have.

I think back on that time,
Walking on that sea wall,
And wonder if the last 11 years
Have all been a dream
And I really am
Still by the sea
Seconds away from dying.

To be read
In itself
Is a victory.

It is hard
To think critically
Of your own poetry.
It is difficult to improve
And upsetting, perhaps
When there is little success.

But, be calm
To have been seen
Is itself
A victory.

I aspire to become
The person
That my dog thinks I am

Rain pooled into a puddle
On the sidewalk as I pass
Reflects at me a distortion of
All the things
I should have been.

Ka か
Ke け
Ki き
Ko こ
Ku く

I write,
Over and over again,
As if chanting silently
To ward off
Forgetfulness
And a growing sense
Of impending mediocrity.

Tell me-
What happens when you cage a wild animal?
Does it forget what it is meant to be?

Does it forget to hunt,
And gather food,
And search for its prey?

Does it forget that it is no longer free,
That it can no longer reach-
Past the glass enclosure?

Does it forget its instincts,
Its defense mechanisms,
How it protects itself?

Does it forget the family it once had,
Its home,
Where safety came easily?

Tell me-
What happens when you cage a living being?
It forgets what it is meant to be.

Is a poet still a poet
If they do not write?

A journal gathering dust,
But a yearning to write.
Am I still a poet
Without my inner light?