Why can't I write
like I feel?

I thought I was better
the letters don't flow
It's my fault.

Why can't I have
more discipline?

Beat, beat
beat myself up
all the time

I'd better go easy.

That's the word
curdled and burned,
a wreck, technically.

A slob.
Can't be bothered for
rhyme and meter,
consonance is the best I can manage
in this vers libre.

I'm sick of it.
I should quit.

But I can't stop
spewing on the page
Jesus, it's not like I'm
some sort of tortured artist

muse burning a hole in my pocket.


Does everyone do this?

The doubt.
Will it last forever?
Never. It comes and goes
coming up roses
pricking my calloused fingers.

Well, that was cathartic.
The least I can do for you
is to cut off this self-referential bullsh*t before it becomes ridiculous.

Here's something new,
a poem within a poem:


The ocean breathes so openly
the sand beneath my skin.
I walk across the desert
seeking somewhere to begin.

A seagull floats above me
with its polished charcoal eyes
it followed me, an omen
in an animal disguise.

Kicking up the dust, it clears
so that I can see the stars
I freeze, held by the stare
of the sharp crimson eye of mars.

I close my eyes. God, guide me
back to safety, teach me trust
the darkness closes in on me
step slowly in the dust.

I stop. I am surrounded
by an ever-growing light.
"Son, do not be so foolish;
this is why I gave you sight."

A cascade of manic energy
the rise, the fall, the crash
neurons fire, sweet desire,
rage like hot volcanic ash.

Will they ever understand?
How can I show them, make them see?
That truly being a Messiah
is our responsibility.

"In time, son. Go to sleep.
remember this: to Love and Be."
alone, I head for home, now
Israel lives inside of me.

I hope you liked my poem. I can only write what I know.
Or don't know. Whatever.

I think I'll stop wasting your time.
Think on it.
I would be consistently melodramatic if I said
that I can't rest until I've told everyone.

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In a box

Don't know.

Not quite.

My dream is bigger than this.

It's simple
Not easy.

Just stand with me.

Time passes,
Distance heals.

The clouds part

I see a little clearer.

In everything, more than just
her face.

My God.

Who's there?

Someone, someone who knows

Someone who loves.


I raise my eyes

Breeze across my face

Light falling in beams

And I know you're there.

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I wanted to share a fake 60 second radio spot I made last year for Audio Techniques class called the "Film School Survival Handbook."

Also, some of my scripts, short films. and other multimedia works are available on my website for your viewing pleasure.