we burn the skeletons
of creatures buried deeper than
the fallen stars that took them
pouring them into our automobiles
so they can take us to the places they roamed

skeletons can't talk
but we tell their stories amidst the quiet
they left us

i wonder if we got them right

my father says i tell him bedtime stories,
which technically is true.
tucked under blankets with his ancient lamp,
emitting soft light around the room.

perched on my mother's half,
slivers of a hobby within my brain,
transferring thoughts into words.
with heavy eyes, he listens.

discussing contents of products,
the beauty industry, and my favorite podcast.
telling of fashion designers, cosmetic chemists,
iconic red soles, and what he calls "face goo."

turning the analysis within my mind into words;
rambling, letting tension in my brain drain.
we balance each other out;
puts him to sleep, gives me an outlet.

i tell my father bedtime stories,
all fresh to him, while i've been obsessed.
my wildest dreams I long to be a part of,
while he drifts into his.

You carry with you pick-pocketed fairytales
In hopes to find something close enough to home
That can fill your glass half-full
You sew yourself into white noise
Soak your hands in spring waters
That rush down memory lanes
Putting together a mosaic
of the greener grass you saw
On the other side
Stitching together fragments of light
From the end of the tunnel
Even bought yourself some rose coloured glasses
To see the silver lining of every cloud
But it all falls short
When the tree stops bearing lemons
So, what does life give now?
Besides some shade and something to laugh about...

I slip shrouded through a summer’s mist
Away from sterile streetlights
That cast a distorting haze, hiding
Endless solar waves, that rest above
This earthly place where I pass my days

With stars tied tight to an infant night
I run and cup one lightning bug for my lantern light
Like being guided by my adolescence, to an open shore
Where the sky meets the vastness of my sleepless mind
This place is free of weight that holds me down;
No thunderclouds hover above me now

Constellations; like scars upon the sky, share stories
Through the passing tides of time. Cassiopeia undone by her pride,
Reminds me when to swallow mine. So often, I feel chained like the maiden;
Andromeda, imprisoned by a pious Poseidon.
On this lonely beach,
I trace my own tale, like a signature on the night. Not a hero but,
I was here. The simple story of a wandering man,
Always willing to lend an ear.