What is said in the unspoken?
In shared glances
In messages deleted
In letters left in the bedside tables and
Notes left in the backs of drawers

Pens with ink that haven't been bled
And pages empty, wishing they could say
The message you think but won't put down
Or say aloud

But I can hear in the spoken pauses
The extra breath between sentences
The stutter in your words

Can you read between the lines
See behind the camera lens
Hear the chord missing from the harmony?
Are these audible pauses
Or am I the fool, listening to silence
As it speaks volumes?

Why do I convince myself
I'm not alone anymore
When as soon as I believe it
I'm left behind?

From just below the surface
Reflections of dreams and nightmares
Lay on each side of the mirror.

I wipe the fog from the window
And look through
To see myself.

My bed is cold
Even as I burrow deeper into the sheets
Waiting for spring
With the flower buds buried on the windowsill.

I can't tell if I'm asleep or awake
As I drift
The numbness, the quiet
Is peaceful.

When the sun rises
I will stir
And unearth from the soil
Blooms which have been waiting, so patiently
To show the brilliance
Hiding below the surface.

The words in my head
Sometimes aren't my own
Angels and devils, I hear them both
Mostly late at night or when I'm all alone
Holding onto something
Waves crashing in an ocean
Trees falling, no one around them
To hear the screams.

Sometimes all you have to live for
Is what you have to hope for.
And what you once held on to
Leaves you stranded in a moment

But you have to trust that life comes in seasons
And the love you once had
Just may, just might, someday
Come find you again.

Life ebbs and flows,
But the tides last longer than an evening
The patterns are more than the months of the moon

Seasons of joy, and light, and warmth
And seasons of darkness, and dreary half-wishes
That maybe it would snow just a little bit more
To swallow up your house with you still inside it

Some seem to be in eternal summer, and only rarely
Or only on television
Experience the cold of a deep snow.

Some live in the deepest forests, at the highest altitudes
Battling the swift winds coming off of great waters
So sharp it seems to cut your face when you face it.

But for most
There are seasons,
Years or months or days
Between changes.

Even in the deepest winter
There is a morning sun;
Even under the most pleasant open sky
Clouds pass through,
At least now and then.

So take the joy when you have it
And bear the cold when it comes

Know the seasons will change with time:
Even the deepest ice can't freeze the sun.

"Enjoy your own company"
Is easy advice
When it isn't the only option.

"Learn to love yourself"
Is a lot easier
When you aren't the only source.

We are social creatures
But maybe there's a reason
The most successful say they're lonely.
Maybe coming to believe
Evolution has finally grown beyond
The measly confines of needing others
Is our inevitable future.

Or maybe,
Now is just a season
To be in your own company
So the next will be so much more appreciated.

How lucky you must be
Without even realizing
To have enjoyed the fruits of my labor
As I fooled myself into thinking
You really cared for me.

How lucky I thought I was
To be appreciated
As I was ignored
To be respected
As you talked behind my back
To be trusted
As you hid from me
Until the curtain finally fell
And I realized you didn't know me at all.

How many times will I fool myself
Into thinking someone cares
When they never ask.

How many times must I be judged
Without being allowed to plead my case
Until I see the jury is rigged.

How many friends must I make
How many lives will I build
On a foundation I pour
Alone.
Only to realize after the house collapsed
That I was the only one who lived there.

I don't understand how it must feel to have never questioned your own existence.

I stand at the sink, hot water scalding my skin as I scrub dried food from plates and forks.

I don't understand how it must feel to have never asked yourself the question, to have weighed the good and the waste in each hand.

The yard outside the window is frozen, painted in white, not a single breeze today. Maybe it'll finally melt the ice on the driveway.

Does everyone have moments of living that don't feel alive?

I dry the dishes.

It is exhausting, isn't it?
To keep walking,
To keep trying.

But there is nothing left to do but try, anyway -
Whether you stay or rise,
It won't change
How much time has passed,
How fast time is passing,
So I might as well get up.

The beauty of a sunset and sunrise
Is the wash of night that wipes everything clean.
The long hours between:
When you can't see your hand before your eyes
You can't see the mistakes left lying at your feet
And in the golden dawn
Even broken glass and aging decay looks beautiful.

The silhouette of mountain ranges glow softly in the distance
Across the vast expanse...
In the morning, you can start walking in any direction,
Until you decide you've gone far enough.

At your feet the ground is new, untouched
Undisturbed tracks of animals and others unseen
Living around you, before you
So you can try to walk again
To live again
Like them.

Maybe this time
With not so many mistakes left in your tracks.
And if not -
There is always the next morning.

Writing feels like painting with the widest brush
Making out shapes and forms on a vast canvas.
I like to sketch out stories like the scaffolding for a house
The framework for a window
The braces for a great tower
But to leave enough blank space for anyone to color it in.

Creations of their own fitting between the lines
Too specific and the details are overwhelming
But just vague enough to hint at beauty,
Light cresting over hilltops with golden glimmers of wheat
Vast waves forming in the dawn of a rising day
But the town, the colors, the city of people are made
In your image, dear reader,
Dear dreamer
You, writer.

I wish I could do it over again
But at least let me live vicariously through you
Stopping you from making my mistakes
Celebrating your joys
Being proud of your successes
I can love you from afar
How I wish I was loved
Watch you fly
With my clipped wings.

Maybe I'll join you when I heal
But for now, I can only see the sky
Through your eyes.

I drive home
Past the same highway markers
I envisioned in my dreams, in the hours driving here
Waiting and waiting for the road north to turn west
Slowly narrowing
Until I'm on my street
In my driveway
I reach the door,

No one's home. The lights are off
I look outside, the tree in the front yard
Lies dead. Not dormant
I know it won't flower in the spring
No one has been caring for it

The dishwasher is full
The clutter on the table
A photo of it all would sound like footsteps coming down stairs
This isn't the way I pictured it.
None of my future is the way I dreamed, as a kid
Life left me on hold
And the music is giving me a headache
I can't wish away the silence.

I can only watch the past form around me
Like concrete burying my feet
Pouring, pouring, up around my knees -
I know it in my bones, I will be buried in this house
Or at least, some important part of me
Will never leave

As my body continues forward, trudging
The parts who were hurt, fatally wounded
Will stay here. I'll be buried in the yard
With no one to mark a grave
Flowers won't be left, and none will grow
I've been left in this wretched place,
I used to call home.

Screaming
I let the noise take shape
Forming something out of nothing
In a mindless run, a sprint
A stream of consciousness, of thoughts, of dreams, of pain
Endless and rushing
Until I am spent and empty

Like a reservoir when the dam has been opened
I pour everything I've had left
Until I have space to breathe
And silence to think
So I wait as it fills again, slowly
And the dam will open again.

They say to not let things bottle up
But how do I release it with no one to listen?
Screaming into the void does nothing
When the words need somewhere to land.

Alone, it builds up
And it leaks from my heart
In comments and glances and that deep aching pain
You can't, or refuse, to see
You never ask about me.

Now that I look back, you never did.
Even when I asked about you.

So now I scream into the void
But the noise takes shape
As words on paper
And sometimes, someone listens
But even if no one does
I can pretend you'll see it.
And in my imagination
Maybe I can pretend
It helps me heal.

Even if you don't speak to me
I will still stand listening.
Even if you refuse to hear me
I will still sing.
Even as you close your eyes to every word I write
I will keep writing.
Just because you wish to erase the memory of me
I will keep my own space
If for no one else
But myself.

Readers, writers
Are a company who finds comfort
In the worlds we build for ourselves
And for others
Seeking solace when we have no comfort left
In the world around us.

There is such beauty in a blank page
Waiting to be decorated,
Or marred

Black streaks dashed hurriedly
Dark and bold upon its face,

Putting shape to the emptiness
Light into the darkness,

The breaking of silence

Like running out into an open field of snow-
The vastness of the front lawn so huge
To little toddler feet
Plowing forward into the crystalline stillness
Shattering it, with sudden life
Joyful cries, wind, movement
Loud and wild life
Out of nothing, out of silence.
There is beauty, in the waiting
Of a blank page.

I go through life with pebbles in my pockets
Walking alone through the storms with my raincoat on
Sand sinks between my toes on beaches,
A cool breeze flows against my cheek under forest trees
And my jacket hangs down with the weight of rocks
In those big wide pockets at my sides.

I pull them out, hold them in my palm
Pick out a piece of seaglass to admire in the sunlight
Set aside one perfectly smooth;
I'll send it skipping on the next lake I find.

Some are beautiful,
Some come with cold dirt that reminds me exactly where it once laid,
Some are scuffed from days, years, of scrapes and hits
And I no longer remember why I picked them up at all.

But as I walk,
Across regions and eons and ranges
I keep some and toss some
Though I'm always adding more.

The memories come with me,
And day after day,
I do my best
To leave the heaviest stones in the miles behind
I try keep my pockets light.

Silence is either the most devastating or the most comforting:

When you scream into the void,
Afraid to hear your own echo,
Comfort is found in the grasp of anonymity.

Yet when you listen for a voice,
None will sound familiar,
For who can respond to ghosts but their own kind?

The gravel is quiet under my kicking feet,
Pebbles glance off my toes, just above the ground
I'd imagine it's loud in the silence
But I have headphones in with nothing playing
Listening to the idea of sound:
I like it a little muffled, so only whispers come through.
It's just enough;
Enough of what, I couldn't explain.

The wind nips at my cheeks, reminding me of a puppy
Playful even as it scratches my ears.
I wish I could warm up with
A drink, or a cigarette
But I don't do that anymore,
Even if it's the only thing I know could keep me warm
Sitting on this bench, with no one coming.

I'm warm enough.

It doesn't happen every day
And it's not particularly remarkable
But it's these kinds of days
That feel remarkably perfect.

The simplicity in the ordinary
Finding sparks of happiness in that in-between
Standing on edges, making something grand of what is seen:
At dusk and dawn,
There is light in both.

Change
Jangling in my pocket
Causing such a racket
Coins are such a nuisance.

I pull a few out
With a clang, my soda drops down
I open it
It fizzes
I drink.

It's hot in the sun
But cold in the shade, when the breeze blows
I feel the air sting my lungs
In my memory, it's always fall, here.

The leaves don't crunch on the ground
It rained last night, though I didn't hear it
Not because my head was too loud
But because I turned my comedies up
So I could finish washing the dishes
As I listened.

Prisms of colored glass
When shone through all together
Make a mingling mural of design
Beautiful, angry, kind, tender
But one look at each piece
Each one is completely different from the next
The side you see written, published, speaking, standing
Are all different views than the rest
How do you know a whole person?
How many views do you need?
How many visions have you shared with friends,
How many are left within yourself to see?

I remember how it felt
When all the pieces fit together
When I felt it couldn't be more perfect
And I could bear any weather,
And slowly, each piece was stripped away
Like a house on fire-
I watched it burn and collapse
Room by room
An inferno.
It left nothing behind
But myself, and my pride.
When it was dug out of the rubble
I glimpsed it buried from the sidewalk
The metal twisted, charred in places
But I tucked it in my pocket.
I'll keep walking down my street
(Though it isn't mine anymore)
Until I find a new town to be a part of-
Maybe a home once more.

Sand is running through my fingertips
Course on my skin, grating
As I watch it pass by, I feel it land heavy on my feet
Already buried under the weight of what I've missed.
And what I'm missing
As I'm trapped to my knees
In all my wishes and old dreams
They seem so naive
But you know what happens to the best-laid plans.

Life is made delightful by its paradoxes
And infuriating in its contradictions.

Those who find their identity in sacrifice
Treasure the moments when others offer their own.

Those who take and take
Are forever left searching for something useful to give.

Those who think of themselves as small
Play such a large part in the lives around them.

Those who are so self-important
Often have an audience full of sneaky glances towards the clock.

Those who love company
Crave for their time alone to be respected.

Those who want to be alone
Want genuine human connection.

Those who talk too little
Have so much left to say.

Those who talk too much
Often keep what is most important to themselves.

Those who take pictures
Want to truly be seen.

Those in the spotlight
Desire unbroken privacy.

Those who are trusting
Are too often trapped.

Those who seek tripwires
Spurn the unlocked doors within their grasp.

For those who give love
It is not always returned.

But those who love themselves
Untwist both halves
To find a heart left pure.

Words can always carry a message
To me, from me,
Even once the messenger is gone.
Stories and legends will always persist,
Not to judge but to inspire
Not to compare struggle, but instead to lift higher
Those few and many stuck in despair
On the shoulders of those who came before.

Because if they did it,
I can do it too.
And one day,
I'll be a story
For the next unredeemed who sits in this chair
Discouraged, alone, and tired
And tomorrow, like me,
They'll no longer be sitting there.

Spirit is present even when I don't feel it
I am present even when I can't feel anything.
The food I cook still tastes good
Even if I can't taste it.
The words I read contain great stories
No matter how much the lines are blurred by tears.
The sunset is still beautiful
Despite its evasion in every photo
And the sunrise is even more beautiful still.

Isn't there tragedy
In sacrificing yourself for other's beauty?
In stepping back from the spotlight
Because another craves it more.
They are also beautiful,
But the eyes of the audience never pass by a second time.
You find solace in capturing moments through the lens
Holding them in your hands
You stay behind the camera
Ever the watching, never the watched
Unseen until it's published
And read to the end.

Is it selfish to want to be less selfless, if only to be seen?

If you knew me well,
You would already know:
Every word has been written
In each moment with you alone.

I have mended my soul
The splintering cracks
Painted them with gold
I fear will fade into brass.

I have sewn up my heart
The rough, jagged tears
With threads of silk gossamer
Becoming tattered with wear.

It should bring some solace
That it is part of the art
For these kinds of things
To keep breaking apart.

Sometimes, in the corner of my eye
There is that glimmer
Threads of the Fate's tapestry
They weave their glistening strands
With gnarled knuckles, worn hands
Between clouds and in the dappling light under leaves.

I see the crimson red of fall
So barely visible, the golden spider's web
Brightening into the stark white of snow
And on and on and on -

Between time,
Between lives,
Isn't there beauty in the mystery of our futures
Known to fate
And only yet to be spun?

When we learned about redshift, years ago
A classroom full of bored teenagers waiting to graduate
I found comfort in the idea that
Nothing mattered
Every decision in my future laid so small in the palms of the universe.

A lifetime seems so bare
Featherweight
Against the stark backdrop of stars constantly shifting
As the world we know expands
Without stopping
Unending
Beyond our perception.

Some thought it morbid. Others, a source of fear -
In an ever-expanding sea, who would notice if they drowned?
In such a vast forest, who would hear the tree fall?

Instead, I thought:
I alone can make the tree grow, and whether it falls or not,
No one and nothing will interfere, no one need remember,
But me.

Relax. The Universe is expanding.

A picture is worth a thousand words
But only if you can read between the lines
There is meaning in the shadows, but one you must choose to find
A picture disrespected by descriptors
As if it only holds what you can see
But if you could read between the lines
Maybe you could find me.

Isn't it beautiful
How the most vivid colors and scenes
Can be created from
Only the black and white on a page?
Movement, harmonies, blends of hues
Described with only memories wished from a writer to you.

I dream of a neighbor waving when I pull in the driveway
We talk **** and sip wine or whiskey late into the evening
We do this every day, and every day we both need it
But their face keeps on changing, in my review
In the morning

I look in my phone for a number that's not there
The one I always call when I'm tearing out my hair
But every time I find the slip of paper, it disappears
The numbers keep deleting from my phone if I don't stare

I can't help but think it's because of the mistakes I made
Maybe that's because it's what they said to my face
Old ones I never knew until they got dragged out of the dark
The dust blown off so you could stack them on the new shelves that you built

I look in the backseat, 600 miles from town
Searching for the faces who at one time I had found
But the seats are empty, only my packed bag
And I still remember when this car was loud
Used to feel like a family even if you weren't around

But as time goes on
I'm told to think of gratitude
For where I'm at now,
For the memories I can diffuse
Maybe make them last, like a hard candy you refuse to chew
Keep the flavors in my mouth
From when I used to know you

And the road looks the same, though the wind screams twice as loud
As before, when I was alone, driving through these empty towns
But I thought when I came back here, I'd bring a village packed in my car
We'd take turns driving, instead I'm sleeping on the shoulder

So when I wake, and when I sleep
I turn the radio up loud
To drown out my silent phone and the unspoken words in my mouth
I wonder at the scenery
The beauty means a lot to me
I know you would've liked to see it too.