Welcome.
Here you’ll find unreleased poems — a peak into the new stage of my creative process. Not perfect, a little strange, and hopefully thought-provoking. Small disruptions to slip into the noise of your day. Enjoy the drift.
Spira
7.25.25
A loop
A cycle never ending
Caught in factory settings
Sets the mood unsettling
Lies steady peddling
Two wheels to get you there
But they’re both deflated
And no one cares
All steps seem useless
On Penrose
All these riddles so much stress
All I know is melting
what a mess
Five seconds to taste it
Catch a diamond on your tongue
The taste of opulence
Spiraled through fractal patterns
I can’t get enough of it
Screens peddling views that seem so
Out of reach
I’m not sure I still believe in the words
They preach
Hopelessly hopeful in a cycle I can’t breach
Please lend me a hand
Break the esoteric cycle and give me something
I can understand
A semblance of the beginning
A tangible relic
A hymn I can hum along to when the darkness consumes
A loom of sacred thread to follow back to the source
Of course
I pray
But I fear no one is listening
Just an echo of my voice trembling
Hopefully hopeless
While the carousel continues to churn
Upon the loop I digress
In search of a lesson to learn.
Crowd control
6.9.25
Rules of engagement!
That’s not what the law says.
Have we lost track of the angels?
Who are you really protecting?
I fear the voice of democracy is dead
Head split
Bleeding out.
Shocking? So is the discontent (I mean disconnect), the violence,
The trickery,
The silence. No one knows the answer.
The wounds are bleeding through the band-aid.
“Shame on you!”
“Get back! You don’t believe in what I’m saying
And you’re wrong for that”
“These are our streets! And I’m willing to
Bleed for what I
Believe in.”
The machine is fucked up.
“Yeah it’s been that way for a while.”
“Fuck the press, they’re all like now this
When really their just hyper fixating
On the latest calamity. Their
truth is bound to purse straps.”
I cried before the teargas ever fell.
“I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but you forced
My hand, and you won’t like what happens when it stops
Feeding.
Ha!
You’ll be begging, trembling from withdrawal
Calling for the redaction of this and that.
What a joke.
I’ve accomplished more in my daydreams.”
Now all we have is ruins.
Your analysis means nothing.
This shouldn’t be normalized.
The transgressions of yesterday are today’s problem.
What will become of us, if no one wants to solve ‘em?
The thread of chaos is sewn deep.
This isn’t peace.
“Disperse now!”
Run back to your hoods.
Regroup and find the truth in
What you stand for, because pretty soon we’ll
All be falling.
Calling on the spirits of our ancestors
Begging for a path
Forward,
But it’s too late for that.
A murder of crows looms above, ready to pick at our bones,
Snickering at our loneliness.
I hope we haven’t gone too far.
Curb trash
5.29.25
“You’re loitering on the wrong side of the street, can't you feel them staring? Daring you to step out of line.
A line drawn in tandem with the erased that lingers like
our past – like street smoking billowing from a cracked car window.
Tinted, stopped at a red light on a clear night beneath a street light flickering.”
Sometimes I feel like a moth attracted to the light
crashing into The Source hoping for a breakthrough, but I usually end up fried in a downfall
wings scolded
hot to the touch brushed up against some pile of trash that will never decompose.
Microchips and silicon enclosed in plastic armor
admiring a false martyr cast down from the zenith,
but I’m still a believer.
I-I have a good conscience, at least I think I do.
I’m still bruised by the reality of it all, though I never really fell
off my bike — unless I was trying to show off.
That's probably a metaphor for something.
Though, no need to intellectualize something that is truly nothing.
What are you running from?
What are you scared to lose?
What are you trying to prove
“There’s a hand hidden behind it all — fiddling with the knobs and buttons that makes something out of nothing.”
“Why are you loitering on the other side of the street?”
I got tired of pretending I belonged and needed to rest my feet.
DEW
5.7.25
Grey clouds,
Crows chirping —
I think they’re mimicking my blackness,
I mean darkness.
Brown hands raised —
Don't shoot.
I-I can't sleep because
Of nightmares where
Blood soaks my boots.
I-I think I'm confused
But if I think too much about
It I loose control over what
I think of you —
I mean us — so close yet a couple
Miles away. Sometimes I
Get these manic spurts
Where time slips away,
And all seems like bliss —
You know that Disney movie
Shit, where forks become combs
And we can talk under water —
Muddy movements.
Damn it! The pressure makes my
Ears ring. Louder...and louder
I'm sick of all the noise,
I feel nauseous now,
I guess the vomit will fill the void.
Wait!
Where did we start again?
Oh yeah, sleepless nights caught
Up in some shit again.
I-I think it's stuck
The VHS is all tangled up again,
Home videos, clips of memories;
Fogged and muddled in a muck.