So I just wrote this on Monday, and normally I don’t share my writing with anyone for a while after it’s been written. But I think this one is ready to be shared. It’s called Raw, it’s basically me verbalizing how I feel about where I’ve been and where I am now. Enjoy:)


I spend my life counting

On others

On certainties

The days that pass.


I spend my life collecting

Moments to keep

Months to remember

Years of scars.


I count until

There are so

Many numbers

In my head


That I lose track

Because no living

Sane, solid being

Could keep all that in focus.


I collect until

My heart is so

Filled with all

The good and bad


That it’s overflowing

With all that I am

So much that all my scars

Become crystalline.


Everything in me

So visible

I’m walking around

Bitterly exposed, Raw.


Overemotional and

Unquestionably brittle

Begging, “Snap me like a dry branch

So there can be


Room for new growth

Something greater

Than all my counting

And collecting, and worry


Show me what Raw

Can come to be

What fruit this

New growth can produce.”


If a broken down

Down and out

Out of time

Time tuned life


Can be revived

From it’s last

Node of

Physical Existence;


Than anything

Can be done.

A new life can

Come from anyone.


That last atom,

With it’s final

Burst of light,

Can spring back


From bitter and Raw.

More can be made

From the absolute end

Than you ever expected.


Now I spend my days

Counting my blessings,

Joys and freedoms.

Living, a life relieved of burdens.


I collect only what

Is beautifully

Complete and sweet.

My scars are no longer my shame.


Instead they are my story.

The Rawness,

Is now what makes me

Rounded and Resonant.


In-between Ink and Paper

As simply put as I can manage, this poem is about what writing is to me.


In-between Ink and Paper


Crazy is all too commonplace for me.

It’s the head down,

Nose-to-the-grindstone result of lunacy.


Within, I’m bound and determined to take what I have,

Transform it from the past,

Make my disaster a masterpiece.


Through my pen I seem Confident.

Through my speech, Cultured.

Through my demeanor, Circumspect.


I use my words as barricades.

To try and bolster my absent pride.

While behind them I stay dwindling, barely existent but still alive.


In-between Ink and Paper;

Such a plain place for me to hide.

Open and public but obscure and comfortable.


This refuge is my only sanity.

A world apart from everyday absurdity.

The one place I can rest in balance and harmony.