When they tell me I’m good with words

Sometimes you want to make music. Sometimes you just want to listen.
Sometimes you want to write novels. Sometimes you want to read them.

Sometimes you want to speak.
Sometimes you want to be heard.

Sometimes you want to be quiet.
Sometimes you don’t have the words.


Muddy water,
murky like some muddy water –
that I keep sippin’
even though,
I know it ain’t for me.

The warden’s daughter,
Lonesome like the warden’s daughter –
that I keep wantin’
even though,
I know she ain’t for me.

She ain’t nobody’s
and I ain’t nowhere –
Nowhere’s now
the place to be.

She ain’t nobody’s
and I ain’t nowhere –
Nowhere’s now my home
ya see?


Should I keep writing?
I mean, I’ve never really made any money at it.
No one’s ever told me that something I wrote changed their life.
Or even changed their day.
Or changed anything at all.
Should I keep singing?
I mean I’ve never made any money at it.
No one’s ever told me that a song of mine made them pause and think.
Or inspired them to move.
Or inspired them at all.
Should I keep breathing?
I mean I’ve never been someone who makes things happen.
No one’s ever told me that I am confident.
Or seem driven.
Or drive women wild.
Should I keep going?
I mean, this list is starting to sound monotonous.
No one wants to hear you complain.
Or write or sing.

Or breathe.


Write a poem.
Sit down, get a notebook out and write a poem.
Then erase every fucking letter because it’s shit and so are you.
The last line was too deprecating, but the audience connects anyway.
Laugh. Throw your head back and laugh. Right at the beginning.
They have to believe you are crazy. You have to convince them of nothing.
There’s a hole in my shoes. There’s a hole in my soul. Which one can a department store fix?
Too few psychiatrist with too many patients with too little patients. I’ve written that line before.
I make a fine poet. Psych. Kidding. I just want to see if you’re still listening.
Make a list then sing all your problems. Out the window. What do birds know? About it.
Probably nothing. But then again, I’m no pigeon.
Cry for no reason in the middle. Break down and shake. Make them believe you are broken. You have to convince them of nothing.
I make a fine depressive. The only kind of person who can ever claim to be a poet.
Pause at the end.
Leave a big. blank. space.
Take a deep breath to make them believe that you are thoughtful.
Convince them you’re something.


They’re tugging at the very fabric of me.
Stretching and distorting.
Pulling, tearing, pushing.
But I like it.

What it does to me.
Warping my wings so when
I try to fly up, I fly down instead.
But I like it.

Because it leads me to wonder.
Because it leads me to why.

They say it starts there, but we all
know better … that’s only a small
part. A fraction of what it really

My brain itches and I try to scratch it
with big questions from lecture halls,
but it never quite resolves.
And I like it.

In the end

You ever think about the last thing you’ll ever do,
with a handful of regrets in your palm –
Listening to the slowest music, alone in your room?
Me too.

I guess I’m waiting for superman to show up at my door.
But he never does.
It’s a bit overwhelming to feel this way.
I feel a bit overcome.

No one.
That’s what it comes down to.
Nobody, empty, gone away.

Absent minded, they pair off two by two
and complain about each other to me
every single chance they get. And they
get a lot of chances.

Tell everyone who’s waiting for superman
To hold on as best they can. While I’m here,
I suppose it’s my job. It’ not a bad one to have.
Now if I could only get myself to believe it.