A Poetic Waltz

Today, I danced with poetry and she was divine.


Sleeping While Awake

Maybe there is a bed for dreamers
To tuck their thoughts into
At night.

Is when you unwind the thread
Of thoughts
That whirl and envelope you
Like a million stinging bees.

Are much like the brain:
Drumming, humming, churning.

Churning up swirls of dreams.



Compelled by parchment-paper,
Enthralled by a draft, a sentence,
A comma –

Typing you out
Syllable after syllable
Reading you out-loud like an endearing book.

You form my syntax,
My expression.

You are the novel I love to read.


An Architect Wearing a Poet’s Guise

Poetry on love and anger – Enjoy, folks.

Summer Solstice

Last night,

I dreamed of unrequited love:
Soft, glowing, shimmering and present –


I feel you no more;
It is as if you have disappeared, vanished and faded.


Were the days I dreamed of loving you –
Lost in my imagination you were



Mine to hold, to curse, to admire –
You were mine
to dream.



I have felt every ounce of anger
oozing from my pores like melted honey.

Weeping the tears, warm and slow, of disappointment, chagrin.

I have swallowed the poisonous pill of guilt,
ingesting that internal suicide.

You are the mime-game I play:
The death of silent remorse.

Hot, searing honey,
as if melted by frying pan,


I am spilling over, vomiting the pain of familiarity.

Raging in my soul like warm honey,
beating in my chest like wicked rhythm,
clamoring in my toes like disease,

I feel my rage through and through.

A Peek Into the Inner Self

For today’s poetry post, I wanted to delve into the idea of the “inner-self.”

[What is the inner-self, how do we reconcile our inner-selves, and how do we even discover our inner-self?]

Instead of answering these questions myself, I wanted to give you guys the opportunity to look at how other writers, well-known writers, have started discussions and asked questions about confronting one’s self, and living from “inner-selfhood.”

One of the most interesting “discussions” of the inner-self comes from one of my favorite poets: Emily Dickinson. Here is one of her most intriguing poems on the topic:


One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted —
One need not be a House —
The Brain has Corridors — surpassing
Material Place —

Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
External Ghost
Than its interior Confronting —
That Cooler Host.

Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a’chase —
Than Unarmed, one’s a’self encounter —
In lonesome Place —

Ourself behind ourself, concealed —
Should startle most —
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror’s least.

The Body — borrows a Revolver —
He bolts the Door —
O’erlooking a superior spectre —
Or More —

Here, Dickinson’s representation of our inward battle in trying to conceal who really truly are as people, leads me to a definition of the “inner-self.”

Our inner-selves are









What I’d like to suggest here is that when we confront our true selves and are willing to come to grips with the fact that we might be arrogant, insecure, broken-hearted, envious, or even belligerent people, we can begin to repair our inner-self through the one who repairs all. I am talking about Christ, people. Coming to grips with the fact that we are broken human beings, incapable of healing ourselves by our own means, is a large part of moving toward mending the wounds that ail us the most. Let me be clear, what I am not suggesting is the neglect of therapy, counseling, or even medication. To neglect the helpfulness of those tools that we as humans have set in place, would be foolish. I am simply trying to nudge your mind in an even more helpful direction. Pairing an intimate and personal relationship with Christ, with the usefulness of therapy is one of the best ways to repair our inner-selves.

Often, stumbling through life trying to hide our brokenness is more damaging than we think. We suffer through traumatic events in life: the death of a loved-one, a spouse/significant other that cheats, an abusive parent, molestation, and the list goes on. To think that we can somehow move through the bumps of everyday life, carrying the emotional scars of the issues we are not willing to face, is a grave mistake, my friends. When we learn to rely on the one who created us, for healing, emotional peace, and genuine love, that is when the mending of the inner-self begins.


Monday’s Poetry


In, out
Up, down

Leaning, waning, creaking.
Black mold finds its way into the most peculiar of places:

You are my abandoned home, my break-down, my remorse.

Filled with regret I walk your steps;
I feel your walls peeling.

In, out
Up, down

Wallowing, doubting, crying.
My heart is at the crux of your fireplace – in the crevice of your closet. I breath in your asbestos, I drink in your odor.

My abandoned home, my solitude.




Hanging in the balance-beams I am waiting.

Hanging arm, drifting leg…

One step and I’m down – one step and I’m up.

Hanging in the balance-beams I am wondering.

My mind is on a trip.
My thoughts are trailing down a path of death and desire.

Death and desire.
Death and desire.

One swings up, one swings down…

This dance of danger, politely enticing.

I am hanging in the balance-beams;
I am in the crevice, that reproachable, claustrophobic space.
I am choking under the weight of desire,
Soaring beneath the wings of death.

Hanging in the balance-beams I am waiting.