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United States

Published Work

Why I Write

Why I Write Or Whatever

I write to capture stillshots of myself in my thoughts onto the words which they form. And if there's something I want to think about, maybe.


For eyes once cups of cold monsoons
His warmth is a burning blanket
Of a thousand Indian suns

Upon the barren terrain of hardened knuckles
His satin hands flow as rapid creeks

From a head once a mound of mourning
His words raise a hill of hope

Environmental Writing Competition September 2018

Overlooked Wonders the Children See

The mother of all mothers lay hidden beneath our feet,
Transcending our skins and our births we walk as her soul's soul children.
Stalks of her fresh grassy fingers tickle,
Rocky fists tease,
Though she cannot be fickle,
For her tender kisses upon roughened feet never at any moment cease.
Her mothers are the trees and her fathers the winds whom gaze at us with overprotective looks;
Trees breathe life unto us as good grandmothers do,
Whispering sweet nothings in our ears and reading from big burly books;
Winds carry to us the soothing nourishment of their wives as good grandfathers do,
Chiding us when they find us taking cover in nooks.
And when we look to the trees and the winds and the Earthen land,
Breathing ever so slowly, so fully,
Taking every step in wonder and amazement,
Ignorant of all wordly demands,
May we all unite as one.



The "About" Turn- The Realization Of The Other

I suspect there are two of me
Yet I am guided by one 
Who knows herself but does not know the other
The other keeps herself hidden
She knows herself but all she knows is forbidden
I know not of who or what is forbidden
But I know of forbidden
I now know of the other
I know she is here, inside of me
But I cannot discern her true properties
Perhaps the me I know is the me the world shaped
She has values, ideas, stubborn principles
But the me I do not know is the part unchanged
She also has thought
Though it is really just mere feeling
Some of this feeling the me I know made its principles
Some of this feeling the me I know rejected and cleansed
But it is all still here
Locked in the unchanged ether of the other.

The Peace of Wild Things

The Irreplaceable Age Whom Blooms With Time

Solace lies
In the depths of the aged souls
Comfort lay in the ancient hands of grandmothers
Wrinkled, made unconstant, by the weatherin of time
Of Earthen tree bark lined with years passing
And dusty brittle pages laden with faded ink, tethered holes

This I Believe

Rambling Of Unpleasant Thoughts Messing With My Mind

Everything I do is authentic. The words I speak in candid thoroughness and directness, the smiles I pull at the trigger of an authentic friend's jokes, the way I hold no filter in my mind and no shame for all the gibberish that flows out of my mouth as a result are all as real and genuine as my soul. It's only all spiced with a few white lies here and there. 
Everything I do is not shallow. Though, I also sometimes laugh about others and judge others.  
I do not concern myself with caring. To care about anything would be to step down from my pedestal of nothingess to the deep abyss of normal human worries. I refuse to look down on anyone, and I refuse to change the look in my eyes when I have seen someone fail. 
So instead of being happy in my perfect idea of self, I am instead realizing I may be the most untruthful,...