{ Saturday, August 18, 2012 }
Running with "The Scientist" in my ear,
And I can't help but wonder
Why it wasn't easy this time.

And I marvel at the sky and at the
Hands that created it that you
Simply cannot believe in,

And I can't help but ponder
What His hand is in this abstract piece
Titled "Life,"

And why it is more full of smudges
And erred brushstrokes for me than most folks.

I contemplate mortality,
And why I feel so weak,
Yet I'm hanging on
While others are hanging by a thread.

I feel spoiled and dirty,
Looking into the mirror with disdain.
Notoriously getting off on my own words
And everything in my skull that follows.

So I give more and more –
Everything but my flesh –
Until I am a skeleton;
An unrequited corpse.

Lying alone in a cold,
Stony grave of hopeful words
And squelched heartbeats.

And I can't help but wonder
Why it wasn't easy this time.

The Train To Roosevelt Avenue

{ Wednesday, July 4, 2012 }

The subtle rocking of the subway lulls me to sleep --
An urban cradle at best --
And I begin to drift in and out of lucidity.

The melting pot I've thrown myself into begins to fade,
And 'this just in:'
The thoughts of the day.

It's funny, feeling on top of the world
And never enough
All at the same time.
This city will eat you up and spit you out all in the same day,
And then seat you on a proverbial throne.

And you'll never be enough --
Interesting enough,
Or alluring enough,
But that doesn't matter,
Because you don't need him,
But Him.

What's this dream,
Jotting down words for a living
And tumbling around in them mercilessly,
When they won't hold you through the night.

I feel like a puddle,
When I used to be a sea.
Becoming too much of this world and losing all depth
Is a terribly frightening feeling.

And then I snap out of it and gaze at all of the buildings grazing the sky
As I sit alone on rocks in Central Park.
Then I beg God for a sign that I belong here,
And I'm greeted with melodic birdcries and
Strangers' smiles paired with crinkled eyes,
And there is a tangible inward shift.

And then I know that I've got to break out of home,
Grab the piece of paper I've worked four years for,
Shake hands goodbye when I'd rather kiss,
Snuff the flames turned habits that I can't shake,
And get here already.

Our Nation's Capital

{ Tuesday, June 26, 2012 }

Only The Best

{ Thursday, June 21, 2012 }

I want to do something reckless tonight,
And I'm restless
Staring out of half-opened windows
And getting high off of the virginal summer air.

I miss the nights out,
The sneaks out,
The sitting-on-the-sidewalks-scared-to-hold-hands feeling.
Being bad back before I knew it was bad.

And they say the nice girls finish last,
But get only the best,
Or maybe I've just concocted that little cliché in my disillusioned skull.
It would be easy to be bad.

It's hard on these nights,
When all you want to do is run wild,
Clinging onto the windowsill and talking to God,
Asking Him to help you

Wait for all of the promises of
Golden intimacy
When everything else is so cheap and flimsy in the world.
Everyone is so cheap and flimsy.

And they say the nice girls finish last,
But get only the best.

Of Permanence, Of Change, Of Honesty

{ Tuesday, June 19, 2012 }
In these last balmy months of endless mid-morning slumber and evenings full of dusty skies, I've learned that nothing is permanent. Nothing, in the sense of what I have been most familiar with for the better years of my life.

I came to ugly grips with the stark reality of impermanent people and relationships years ago. I shed the callow skin of infatuation, soul-spilling serenades and hand-penned letters and traded it in for something much more practical and impenetrable.

But the halls of my home aren't as permanent or familiar, as is my childhood neighborhood. My bed, that used to curve perfectly around me as I drifted off to some unworldly, lucid place, suddenly feels like a tomb. Nothing here feels permanent anymore.

It's my last summer, and all familiarity has been rubbed away with time and age.

And I'm constantly moving. Going from here to there, point A to point B, incessantly. My spirit of adventure is undoubtedly being fulfilled, and it's invigorating. Rejuvenating, even. I am experiencing the world -- sight, smell, touch and taste at a time. No location is permanent, no location is too familiar.

I will be a stranger in a new city in five days, if only for 48 hours. But 48 hours is enough.

And I'm changing. Leadership, courage and boldness are taking the forefront; not by choice, but by necessity. And I'm learning that vulnerability does not equate to weakness, and desire is not a gateway to senseless hurt. Or at least, not every time.

And I'm coming to terms with honesty. The inner war field of 'the things I think' and 'the things I think I should say.' I so wish that I could honestly describe the things I have seen, and will see, this sepia-tinted season.

I wish I could formulate the words to describe what it feels like to watch the sun melt into the horizon from the Empire State Building, like a slowly-burning coal that had diamond potential. Or the way it feels to run my finger over adolescent initials carved into wood half a decade ago. Or how the heat radiates up from the pavement of city streets and only propels me to walk on harder toward my destiny. How the creek trickles all afternoon and how the big rock there -- my rock -- feels like a kingdom under the sun.

I want to whisper all of this, or say it all long-winded, or slip it out of my lips surreptitiously between sips of coffee, but that isn't reality. I simply don't have a recipient for all of this earnest honesty.

Until then, the paper and pen.

Vlog: Summertime Storytelling

{ Wednesday, June 13, 2012 }

Unapologetic. Enjoy!


{ Tuesday, June 12, 2012 }

I rose early just to see the smog rising,
And set out to soak in all that the asphalt would lead me to.
Seeing red in the one place that was once gratuitous to me --
No longer.
No one knew me here,
The blatant anonymity of it all was thrilling,
And the sirens and screeching tires served as a personal soundtrack.

But it was so early,
And I always go to sleep a poet and wake up a fraud.
The sleep had hardly been rubbed from my eyes,
Yet here I was, beating the pavement,
Feeling fraudulent.

I couldn't write my way out of this.

I sat on the weathered-down curb.
The pen felt flimsy and foreign in my hand,
And the words fumbled out of my mouth like tiny pleas. 
'I never should've,'
'You never would've,'
'I just feel...'

I just feel, like, bone-dry and hollowed out, you know?
On the inside, where lively rivers used to flow.
Flow like your fingertips down my goosebumped sides,
Or the hot water, trickling.
And I never should've been that honest,
Because we both know how you take the truth and run with it.
Contort it, and use it like a dagger, even.
Letting the truth slip through my paper-thin lips never set me free,
But only bound me to you yet again.
You only keep yourself this sick in the head
Because I know how the words get you (off).
I know, I know.
I know I could never be what you need.

And then I hastily scrawled my poor excuse of a John Hancock,
Folded the parchment, and sealed the honesty inward.
My pulse calmed, knowing it was all hidden for now.

You were still in the room dozing when I returned,
Looking fallaciously angelic in a tangle of ivory sheets and blankets.
I sat in a stiff-backed chair for a moment,
Only allowing myself a few glances, for memory's sake.

I counted the rogue freckles scattered across your strong back,
(That was so appealing)
And wondered how someone could sleep that hard.
(Sometimes for afternoons on end)
But that was it.
The glances only turned to longings, and the longings turned into inward beckonings for me to stay.

I left the letter on the side table, confident that you would read it as soon as you rose.
The sun began rising and combating the smog through the window,
Simultaneously raising my spirits.
The skyline was salacious and alluring and taunting all at once.

So I ran for it.