A July 4th

July fourth
Watching fireworks
Each one, a family
Each one, a memory
Every one a possibility
Only, not for me
The people behind those lights
I will never meet
The moments that they make
Will never require me to be complete
And I’ve been told so many times
Not to make so much of little things
But it strikes me in its tragedy
And the tears take off with failing wings.


There’s a face you’re used to seeing
And I’m not sure that it’s mine;
My own is always fleeting
And you don’t catch it quite in time.

You only see what I am showing —
But you never seem to mind,
Or see what I most fear you knowing,
Or what I most wish for you to find.

Instead you shout for a beginning…
But for me the show is always on;
And as the act begins you think you’re winning
But if you looked, you’d find the actor gone.


The choice of no choices:
Surely I’ve said it here before,
Thinking that I’m thoughtless,
Faceless evermore;

That my voice becomes voiceless
The moment it is heard,
And everything I wish
Is best not pandered with a word;

And all my silly choices
Are no better than what’s gone before;
So what’s the point in raising voices?
It won’t help me be heard more.


I want to have a sea foam house,
Just a walk down from the beach:
A decor of shells and ocean air;
Sand in corners that I never reach.

I want to have a summer home
In a place where winters wander long:
Forget about the burning sun;
Forget the haze that’s rarely gone.

I want to have a place my own,
Where the rules are mine to make;
Where the experiences go beyond the door,
And none of the truths inside are fake.

I want to have my sea foam house;
I want my peaceful beach.
I want to know I have my place;
And that who I am is never out of reach.


I thought I knew my weaknesses…
Then, I met you.
You were interested, and charming;
And what am I but a lonely soul,
Full of longing, and so painfully naive?
I must have looked such easy prey,
Such a simple thing to use;
And I confess, I made it easier,
Leaving little clues.
But the funniest thing of all
Is that I broke up with you;
And not because you were using me…
But because I was using you.


My verse affords me not
The magic of transformation;
Bland are all my thoughts,
And every word’s a shallow imitation:
A fine echo of a troubled mind;
One confused, a little tired,
Craving a warmth it cannot hope to find —
Will not hope to find, for such is mired
In mistakes that scar like fire,
And to guard against with cold
Is the only defense this child knows
To keep from growing old.


I wonder if you can understand,
That I kill pieces of myself
Just to prove I can;
Just to see if you can bring them back again.

I wonder if you can understand,
That when I said what I said
I wasn’t saying “go away,”
I was saying “come back another day.”

I wonder if you can understand,
That I’ll hide beneath every rock
Just to see how many you’re willing to turn;
And if you aren’t at all — then you’ll never get to see how much I yearn.

What is one to do?

What is one to do
When every word is a knife,
Every masquerade of normalcy
A bag over the head?
What is one to do
When what should be a life
Is just a pretence born of uncertainty,
And every day is just another day of the dead?

What is one to do
When just the word of “trying”
Reminds me of every infant rebellion,
Every longing quick put down?
What is one to do
When all unbegins with crying,
And the little steps that would have been
Sink into the sand and drown?

The Horizon

I’ve heard people tell of chasing this thing.
Sometimes, I see it in my dreams;
It seems like such a lovely place to be —
But some will chase it endlessly.

They call it far, or call it near:
Miles, they never volunteer;
Time, they never dare to guess,
And some could swear that they regress.

But this thing they swear is their true home,
This place that they will never go,
Is the place that they already were
If they turn back once they’ve gone after.