The Smaller Deaths

Life is cold

For I am ice.

I live to die once, 

Not twice, 

Not a million other smaller times.

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A Dark Sunday Night 

Where are you? 

You clearly

Are not here

Not now

Or in the past

Or in a far removed possibility 

Or father down the road 

You are currently walking. 

Who are you? 

You are not yourself 

Or one of us

Or one of them. 

You find yourself

Passing through

Never being a part of 

A body

Or thing 

Or identity. 

Who are you? 

Are you a man, 

Or a boy? 

Or something that is both 

And yet


Are you real:

Breathing in and out

Full of,

and bleeding life? 

Or fiction:

A figment 

A pawn

Of greater forces

Or blank slate:



Do you know 

Anything at all? 

The answers to the questions;

The big Why, 

The smaller What, 

The perpetual When

And the silent Now What? 


Do you know? 

I guess 

We’ll never know. 

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Little Fires

I find life, 

The fire in it, 

In the little things. 

In your smile;

Subtle, but loud. 

Faint, but as large

As a cloud. 

In your eyes, 

When you look away. 

Look here, 


Somewhere else, 

And at me. 

I find life

In the things you see

When you think

Of what we

Could be.

When you think

Of the bright sun

And a brighter future.

Of that one fear

We don’t give thought

Or voice to. 

I find life

In the gladness I feel

In these little things. 

The gladness 

That doesn’t look like

A smile 

Or laugh,

But a deep breath

From something more. 

Something more than


At the movies, 

I look sideways

At you.


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The Gift 

Sleep, itself 

Is a blessing;

A break from all that transpires. 

And in waking, 

There is an undressing

Of all the gifts 

It clothed you with. 

I wake, naked

Like I did the day before. 

For the cold wind

Of reality

To assault my skin

And senses. 

Clothe me, sleep

Clothe me once again. 

And when I wake, 

If I must wake, 

Don’t strip me once again. 

Leave me 

With at least a portion 

Of the oblivion

Of dreaming. 

Of not knowing. 

Of seeing 

And feeling 

But not remembering. 

Of falling, 

But staying still

In my bed. 

In my head. 

I want 

To be anywhere 

But where 

The air

Bites my skin. 

Breaking it

Morning, afternoon, night 

And then morning again. 

Sleep, help me. 

Grant me oblivion

So it can dull the pain. 

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I need you 

Only in little doses now. 

A little at night, 

A little in the morning. 

Otherwise, I might 

Grow sick of this feeling. 

These walls

That echoed my name

Grow too familiar;

Too close. 

Too many memories here

Not worth remembering. 

Too many lines

Scratched across this coat of paint

To still look beautiful 

In night or daytime. 

For they all come

With a burden

Of memories. 


I need you 

A little less

Than I did before. 

Before, when fear

Of what lay beyond you

Shook me from standing hair

To shaking core. 

I am still that boy, 

Not a man still

Maybe I never will be. 

But I’m tired 


The smell

The feeling… 

That familiarly flows over me. 

Tired of my name. 

It’s sound 

As it bounces from one corner

To another 

Summoning me to a responsibility

That I did not choose. 

Take me away from here, 

Wanton thought. 

Push me out

And away. 

Maybe then

I will feel something 


Something besides 

The way I feel

At home.

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With You (Or Something Equally Corny)

I wrote this

While watching you sleep.

I wasn’t watching,

I was listening

From one

Or two thousand miles away.

The rhythm

Of your breathing

Crosses land, sea,

Mountain and chasm

Till it finds it’s way

To my ear


You’re right here

By my side.


I dance,


To this rhythm

Like a small leaf,

Or a curtain

On a windy evening.

This rhythm

Is like children playing

And not knowing

The music the sight of them

Plays to the hearing

Of those patient enough to listen.


When you wake

And breathe a “good morning”,

My good morning,

I will somehow

See the lines the sheets

Left on your face.


Hear your yawn,


But only just a little.

And I too

Will say good morning

Knowing I am there

With you.

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You Found Me. Like that The Fray song

I have found 
A place 
To rest my thoughts; 
The constant 
Rustling of dry leaves 
Between my ears.

I have found 
A space 
To catch my breath. 
To inhale 
To the deepest parts
Of my heaving chest.

I have found 
A refuge 
To shield my last hope. 
The last shred
Of the fading humanity 
Left in me.

I have found 
My pulse, 
It’s proof of life. 
And with life comes hope 
Of a better tomorrow 
In spite of this darkness.

I found nothing. 
Found me;
Beat down before the fight, 
Out of breath 
Before the race. 
I spoke of faith 
But believed in nothing 
That hadn’t already come
To show itself to me. 
Are proof
Of soothing sunsets, 
Of the high tides
That wash the feet
Of the sandy beach, 
Of the evening wind
The blows your hair
Across your face
Never concealing 
The beauty of it. 
You found me
And in you
I found 
All the things 
I can’t live without.

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