I liken myself to a tree,
not one sitting on a shelf anxiously waiting to be chosen,
delicately removed, and planted in a cul-de-sac.
rather, one that sprouted serendipitously;
slowly swimming upward toward sunlight
until it reached the canopy of the likeminded;
towering over trodden trails
and the undiscovered;
collecting whispers of those who pass by;
whispering, whistling wind grazes me.
I shake and shudder,
in sync with all the trees around me, but
I grow unnoticed in a sea of those doing the same—
unattached; unabraded; unobserved.
if I fall,
and no one is there to hear my screams,
do I even make a sound?


hope should come with a warning label:
“if ingested too hard, it will become false expectation.”

microdose hope. 

sparingly sprinkle specs;
softly slice slivers.
sumptuous consumption consumes;
suppurates somewhere inside you;
skulking…until it
sneakily eviscerates you.
streams of rainbows spill out, 
seep into your blood-stained carpet. 

your pain becomes color,
and color is the deeds of light:
its deeds and its suffering. 


is my presence convenient enough for you –
something to acknowledge when it suits your fancy?

shallow shells of friendship;
I am chronically misunderstood. 

how much can a man take before he succumbs to the weight of distrust?

everything has to die. 
every friendship must wither. 

it is uniquely human to believe there is still hope—
or uniquely human to know there is none.