free from words


I use to write

all the time.

Masterpieces and landscapes

moonlight and stardust –

It all filled the empty pages

of my torn notebook.

If I turn it over


stardust still falls

and glimmers as it falls

between the cracks of my

crazed imagination.


But now

it’s mostly a memory –

the worlds I created,

the feelings I invoked.

My pen was the source

of my sanity

until recently.


You see,

once I found you

I had no need to write.

Not that I lost all my creativity

and the buzz in my head stopped


the spoken

and not the written word

became my escape.

I had someone to tell everything and anything

without a glimmer of judgment.

Words became an old friend

that I visited sometimes

but we didn’t have quite the relationship

we once had.

And I almost feel like I betrayed them

…I forgot words – I left them in the dust.


But the truth is

I didn’t need them anymore.

My insane mind

was tamed,

I didn’t need to scream on paper

anymore because I

could use my real voice

and that was loud enough.

I want to say I’m sorry

but I don’t feel I should

because I feel freed.

I’m freed.

I’m free from the prison on these notebook lines.

I’m free from the accursed sound of scribbles.

I’m free from the writer’s block that

so often clouded my senses.

I don’t depend on you anymore, my dear friends,

You are no longer my solace in this world.

I have a real human that knows my

thoughts just by looking

at my face.

It’s easier to live like this,

I have to say.


I’ll never stop writing

but it’s not my life


For the longest time

that made me sad

until I realized

…it’s empowering.

So thank you

for how far you’ve taken me,

but I have it now.

You were my training wheels

to life

but I can handle the open road.


I want to say I’m sorry

but how can I?




Varnish away the smudges and streaks,

Mend the hinges rusted and weak.

God, make of me something beautiful and clean,

Sins red as scarlet, begin to wean.

Take of your servant though small and frail,

Carve, smooth, and alter without a wail.

Submitting to your will, I fully give,

Everything and anything to with thee live.

A few minutes of my time

A few minutes of my time

Before I venture off to work.

Where is my happiness today?

I pray, it isn’t far away.

But deep in my heart,

I find access to a smile,

A friendly gesture of hand,

And a kiss of good luck.

Im trying to find satisfaction

With my singular life.

A little job

With little problems

A little family,

I dream to grow.

I choose to find solace today

Around the nay-sayers

And judgement looks.

Today will be

A fanatic day.

Even though

it’s almost over.

the stuffy air


The stuffy air        &

blanketed sky

fill my senses with


of chilly autumn wind     &

tattered wool blankets.

The pumpkin season has begun

but the heat still says

it’s summer –

like a friend that won’t leave


a haunted remembrance of a past love.

It’s different

here because the leaves

don’t fall.

They stay on the trees away from

rakes and tricker treaters.

The leaves hide in their homes

like an introvert peeping through the blinds

to see the world but never

daring to venture.

The colors never change

which is hard for a person

that needs


Even though this is all a big change

I secretly don’t want anything to change.

I enjoyed the harsh winds on the rolling plains &

the snowy banks of my little town.

Now all I see

are faceless people,

walking through an

untamed life,

scoffing and scorning at anything beautiful.

The city is not for me

with it’s tall buildings and rushed atmosphere.

Take me back to the place I love,

filled with the smell of cow manure and tractor grease.

But I’m stuck in summer until

the end of tomorrow.


the happiness theory

“What’s separating the two?”

        “A line.”

“How do I get rid of it?”

        “You can erase it.”

“I don’t know how.”

         “Sure you do. You made it.”

“I made it? I don’t remember.”

         “That’s normal. It happens over time, sometimes very slowly.”

“But I can get rid of it?”

         “Why not? It doesn’t have to be there.”

“How long will it take?”

         “As quick as you make it.”

“You mean that it’s all that I make it?”

         “It has always been that way. You chose to create the line and you can choose to erase it.”

“Just like that?”

        “Just like that.”



Just like that.

a question you might ask

What is a human?


A creature of the night,

falling deeper and

deeper into a dark pit


with each pausing breath?

A figment of God’s


a messy bunch of cardboard

at the dump?


It is a floating piece

of seaweed,

rising and falling with the tide?

Never reaching land or any space of free will?


Does it flash like a lightning bolt

in the hazy, blue sky;

touching the earth with power?


Or does it simply sit in a corner

and eat the gears and hands off of clocks?


Can it rise up and speak–

Is it confined to a cage like a bird?

Does it sing the song of

redeeming love or

fall through the sky like a

hole-filled parachute?


What ever it is,

I’d like to meet one.


A real one.

truth as a maybe


Maybe we were all wrong,

believing the lies that spill from our mother's mouth,

believing the deceit that fogs our clouded memory,

maybe we were always wrong,

and no one told us that

the sun never sets and always sleeps


the moon remains a projection of our crazed fantasies, 

forever lighting our sky with false hope

Maybe we never came to our own birth,

sitting in the corner of heaven

waiting for the day of deliverance,


maybe we never came to our own funeral,

death being an inanimate object,

resting on a shelf, collecting dust.

Maybe our daydreams are windows to reality,

that are simply locked in the levels of

inescapable dreams,

And maybe that's what life will always be–

A dream within a dream,

that is never fully realized 

as a figment of conceptual space.

What remains



unseen in the eyes of the beholder,

Can truth be forced on a believer?

Or does it fall between the sidewalk cracks

because no one cares to pick it up.

Maybe we will always believe what we're told

even though truth is plastered on a billboard,

the creatures of the night splatter paint against the soft spoken words

to hide the way to freedom,

for some strange reason.

And for some strange reason, we don't scrape the lies from our eyes,

even though the truth is evident 

and sublime.

Maybe we will always be lost 

in translation,

swimming for hours to find a Savior of debris,

seeking for the depths of unity and despair

in a world that cares very little 

for common sense.

And maybe we never will.


The Flames

I wrote another conscious imitation for class today and I really enjoy how it came out. This time I imitated the wonderful Mary Oliver. She is a fascinating lady with the most curious poetry. She has the style and feel that I desire to have some day–I find inspiration by reading her work and also discover bits and pieces about myself along the way. Give her a read, I know you’ll love it. 

Here is the original and mine is right below.

“The Lamps” by Mary Oliver

Eight o’clock, no later,

You light the lamps,


The big one by the large window,

The small one on your desk.


They are not to see by–

It is still twilight out over the sand,


The scrub oaks and cranberries.

Even the small birds have not settled


For sleep yet, out of reach

Of prowling foxes. No,


You light the lamps because

You are alone in your small house


And the wicks sputtering gold

Are like two visitors with good stories


They will tell slowly, in soft voices,

While the air outside turns quietly


A grainy and luminous blue.

You wish it would never change–


But of course the darkness keeps

Its appointment. Each evening,


An inscrutable presence, it has the final word

Outside every door.


“The Flames” by Rebekah Shepherd

Seven o’clock, no later,

You light the fire,


The stone one in the dining room,

The brick one in your bedroom.


They cannot be seen

Past the surrounding wooded forest,


The great pines and huckleberries.

Even the fauns have not hidden


For sleep yet, out of sight

Of crawling cougars. No,


You light the fire because

You are lonely in your small cabin


And the flames crackle stories

Like a concourse of party voices


Their words hum against the wooded walls,

While the air outside slowly becomes


A hazy and translucent silver.

You wish the sun would never leave–


But of course the night must obey

Its natural clock. Each evening,


An impenetrable attendance, it whispers the last word

Outside every door.


A Faceless Lecture Hall

Lecture hall filled by faceless bodies

Gaps between the seats illuminated

by a ghastly light reflecting

grays off of

the bleak brown wallpaper


I find it hard to listen –

I sink into the echoes of voices and

the air flow

that sounds like a rushing storm

racing through an empty fireplace


Drowning out the voices

the bleakness of winter takes over

It’s distracting and

highly engaging

Like standing in the middle of a white void

gazing into nothing

but hoping for


An appearance of a face

staring back

that connects eye to eye

finding the depths of your snow filled nerves


In an empty lecture hall

I stand faceless too


Before I knew it,

it was there

covering the outline of your face behind the glass.

I once polished it every night,

gave it kisses and spoke to it as if you were here.

Told it of my struggles,

my griefs,

the way my heart broke every day I was without you–

It seemed to listen.

It satisfied my longing for a short while.


Then it became a mask,

a fake image of you.

Mocking me,

smiling a grin of contentment and peace

while I sit here drowning in despair.

Hitting myself over the head with the never answered question,

What happened to forever?

Or is that covered too

buried beneath glass as

a mock of my daily life,

taunting me with its looks

but unattainable possibility.


I knock on the glass,

blow the dust off

trying to rescue anything salvage worthy

in vain attempts.

It’s locked up and gone,

covered in the seconds and minutes of time,

doomed to be a memory forever.