First Class

Red lipstick stains
and velvet cheeks on the train.

You asked for wine
and so it came.

Men kept their smirks
and held on to their canes.

They looked at you
with nothing but desire.

You saw this
and rolled your eyes.

No class in sight,
and so you sighed.


"I like you.
But I’m not ready yet.”

— 11:16, 4/16/14, vaguelyinked

"If you have the words, there’s always a chance that you’ll find the way."
— Seamus Heaney

We’ll Leave This Place

Hold my hand, mother dear.

Soon, we will be in paradise —
     where no one can yell at us,
     where no dragon can draw
     its fire at us.

"True love is elusive, she said, sometimes I think it’s as rare as a red moon on a cloudless night."


Tick, tick, tock —
     there goes the
     grandfather’s clock.

Clunk, clunk, clunk —
     did I just hear someone

"Don’t be afraid," —
     says the metallic voice

Drip, drip, drip —
     there goes my blood.


Hanging by the branches
like a strand of beads;
we were like living in different colors,
only in the same territory.
How could I tell
what kind of being am I
if all I could see is this
repeating scenery?

"To help yourself, you must be yourself. Be the best that you can be. When you make a mistake, learn from it, pick yourself up and move on."
— Dave Pelzer



What makes a poem?

Some say it’s when the words rhyme

and there are complex  

yet beautiful images

in every line

with fancy words longer than my arm

and it doesn’t make sense

but it has a “hidden meaning”

and it sounds smart

and it sells.

But maybe a poem

can be anything at all

as long as it feels right

and it means something

or the right kind of nothing

to you

to me

to no one in particular.