Found a folder of eighty plus poems I have written as a teenager.

A lack thereof
Nostalgia,
is just a dark road
with dim streetlights
and swaying trees.
A black diamond-back
with stolen valve caps
from a toyota eclipse,
gray and fading.

Every time I go back,
something is rewritten.
The thought corrupted,
by the constant yearning
against change. For something
stable, sacred, static…stop.

It’s being rewritten
again, so let me stop.
In hopes of sincerity,
in the lack of words.

#2

Pleasure was to be assured
Yet little came.
Replaced by disappointment
And nothing changed.

Emotions stagnant and blurred
Movements still the same.
She’s contorted and bent
Her beauty is framed.

It traps us in a few words
And we are to blame.
Whatever pays the rent
That’s how she gets paid.

One Note

Do you hear that?
It’s coming from you.
That snare, that high-hat
It’s red, it’s blue.
But baby, it’s coming from you.

Quick and up tempo,
Dissonance and mystery
Collard shirts and fine shoes.

It’s addictive, it’s smart
It’s maddening, it’s art.
Coming from below and above,
It’s pain, it’s love.
It’s you.

Can’t hear it?
Skip to the beat,
Find it!
It’s got to be along this street.

I’ll snap to your footsteps,
And you will see,
This music,
You couldn’t find in me.

Empty Coastlines

The sun danced on ocean waves
As the wind played with your hair.
Laid down, I let the suns happiness blind me.
Waiting to see what fruit happiness bears.
Sand, Sun and a smile.
A smile, that fills the empty places between stars
And convinces me of a security that doesn’t exist.
A smile etched, in time
Given by the sun.

Reflected off of tombstones,
Sandy tombstones.