A Letter to…

This letter is addressed to the church for its mission faces the ground rather than the heavens. To the elected people for greed is an infection easily caught but rarely cured. And to my brothers and sisters for I tell you that love has moved into the neighborhood.

Comfortable is a sickness easily caught.

We stay inside our million dollar walls telling ourselves that the problems people face in countries around the world is out of our hands.

And already we’ve made a crucial mistake

Why do we build walls between our brothers and sisters and ourselves?

Are we afraid that color of their skin may cause us to be tainted in the eyes of the creator?

Why do we look across the sanctuary and begin condemning our brothers and sisters, labeling them unholy, as we are trying on the shoes that only God can fill.

Who are we to say that others are unworthy of the eternal love to we were gifted while we were still sinning?

As if somehow blasphemy is not a sin all its own

As if my broken pieces cannot be used to construct something beautiful

As if all of my love for God escapes through the extra holes in my ears

And the ink beneath my skin makes me tainted before the perfect creator of all that is imperfect

What we defined as different, He first defined as unique

What we defined as a lost cause, He first defined as a faithful servant

What we defined as Homosexual, He first defined as Son and Daughter

By the rules of this world, not a single man, women , or child, is worthy of one cent of the treasure of heaven

However, Jesus did not come to enforce the rules of man, but to abolish them

And in their place, create the rules of Heaven.

Love your enemies; no exception

Give to those in need; no exception

Blessed are those who are persecuted; no exception

But when a country is in need, we dare not give to them because they are responsible for persecuting our Christian brothers and sisters

As if our missionaries, better yet, disciples of God, did not expect it.

As if nowhere in the bible does it say that being a Christian isn’t easy?

To the elected people:

Do you honestly think that the people who elected you

People just like me

People just like you

Don’t see it?

The way you forget those in need, like it’s a bad case of amnesia.

The way you cater to the rich but abandon the poor, sweeping them under the rug of marginalization

And play it off as if your run-on sentences can’t be fixed with simple punctuation.

You see the “trickle-down” effect doesn’t permeate the impermeable.

What you call a poverty line

I call an umbrella

Keeping those under it from gathering water

I have come to see that there is no cure for your infection

As human nature is a greedy business.

To my brothers and sisters:

Why drink?

The water that trickles down is no more than leftover condensation dripping out of the exhaust of a real American machine

This is not anarchism

As I believe in a system

A new system whose named is carved into the streets of every slum, favela, and ghetto around the world



Nothing More

They say

its the part of the year
When young boys
Start missing their homes
As if I’ve
gone away
To the bloody battlefields of war
But nothing more
Than county lines
Separates me from mine
And I won’t wait
Just one more day
To be back in your arms
The look on your face
Says it all
I know I’ve been gone away for too long
You say your heart aches
Like if Summer never came
And it was Fourth of July
But nothing more
Than little white lies
Is keeping me from coming home to you tonight
And I won’t wait
Till tomorrow morning
To say I love you baby
Baby, baby, baby, baby.
I’ve wasted my nights
For hours
Just waiting for that damned phone to ring
The say I should of
Learned to buy you flowers
But instead i just learned how to sing.
But nothing more
Than broken hearts
And a hundred and twenty-eight fucking miles
Keeps me from falling in love with you again!!
And I won’t wait
For your heart to break
Over again!
And I won’t wait
For the wind to change
To sail away with you babe
To sail away with you babe
To sail away with you babe
And I won’t wait
To sail away with you babe

White Bread

What is so toxic to people about being uncomfortable? What causes us as humans to want to be comfortable? Is it The American Dream, injecting us with “I can’t do anything about that” and “It’s not my responsibility,” or is it the Enemy keeping us away from what our father has willed? Whatever it is, we ignore it, and blow it off as something of great unimportance. We spend our well-earned worries on 99¢ problems that serve as barriers between the heavens and us. Little do we know that those barriers are no more than anthills, and with one step to the left and two to the right, victory is met. But still we don’t dare to face our comfortable sickness. When things become difficult, we say “God would never put me through this, I must be doing something wrong,” when in reality, Christianity isn’t easy. Still, without allowing God to define himself for a change, we tack on post-it note characteristics of who we think God is, because it makes us more comfortable. As if cutting the crust off of white bread makes it taste any different.


The leaves are falling

and Autumn is calling me home.

And your memory

still sleeps inside the walls.

Our bed left unmade

from the last time I wasn’t alone.

I just sit here waiting,

wondering when you will…

come back home.

Why I Write

This is why I write. I write poems, songs, and stories, all to discover the real reasons behind what I feel. Just as free write is meant to help you understand what happens while you write through a self-discovery process, poetry does this. While I write, through the poetic way in which I write, I discover the real problems in my life and their real solutions. The word solution comes from the idea of the root of something. That’s why we’re always told that at the root of the problem is the solution. So, through the process of breaking everything in a story, sentence, idea, or word, down, we are able to find its solution. We are able to find its true meaning. But more than that, I find what it means to me, in my life. Reflecting on my life, on my past, is more than just looking back on it. It’s looking back at it, knowing that there are some pieces missing, and that no matter what I replace them with, it will never be identical. But that’s okay. The imperfect way in which I remember my past, reminds me that it is not are past that matters. And in the same respect, the imperfect ways in which I think about my future as well as my past, is a reminder that neither my past nor my future are as important as now.


“Comfortable,” is a sickness.

It’s every foul word you throw my way way because your mind is too weak to have anything else to say.
True love is a monster.
It twists your words and wakes you up at night with sweats and convulsion wondering if any of this is even real.
Dreaming… Dreaming is a disease.
It ties slip knots around your ankles like anchors of the fairy tales that you once believed,
Because once upon a time life was so simple, like a mothers arms wrapped around her child crying “everything will be alright.”
alright? alright?
When was everything alright?
When was it all so easy?

Behind Closed Doors

I am terrified of the exploration of myself. Maybe I’m afraid of what I’ll find hiding behind closed doors, doors with locks that know no keys, doors with rotting wood that has been painted over time and time again to hide the deterioration. Usually when a home owner has a very bad experience in their house, they move. Sometimes I wish it were that easy.


I haven’t been content in so long.

When I was a boy I was told to keep your fingers between mine so that true love wouldn’t slip through my knuckles.
Don’t. Let. Go.
In my dreams, we are older. Married A house A dog Two and half kids. And then I wake up
One week
One month
Six years you say
And sooner or later we will never be together for all of eternity
When I was a boy I was told to never use those two words together in a sentence.
I’ve been breaking your heart, loving you, and making plans for far too long.
Sleep is for sane
I think so that I might be able to solve all of these problems but nothing nothing nothing will fix this except for one in seven billion.
When I was a boy I was told to find the cause of the problem to fix it
I found the cause, and you are the only one, one of seven billion, that can fix it
Fix me
Fix. Us.
My hands still smell like you.
They still shake with memory
With apology.
With pain.
I hope that someday you may read this and laugh.
You heard me right.
Laugh because these so called problems had solutions that you never thought possible until you tried.
I pray to god that one day you may try.
Because the truth is, I don’t deserve your 100%
I dont deserve only one out of a billion.
If we are baseball then I am machine pitch and you are MLB
Way out of my league
I don’t deserve to be looked upon with your flawless eyes
My hands don’t deserve your beautiful god-crafted fingers between mine.
And so.
True love slips through my knuckles.
I pray
Pray pray pray
That you may catch it.


There are certain whispers that echo in certain rooms, that I hope will never beat on the drum of my ear again.

My house is home to everything I’ve ever heard, felt, done, or seen.

These things are more than just guests, they become family, however they’re the kind of family that you don’t invite to Thanksgiving dinner because of something they did to Uncle Joe.

He’s stilled pissed off about it and won’t ever let it go and so they are never allowed to leave the door of the house they entered through.

As you grow up with all of these things; living, sleeping and eating you while you eat breakfast, you learn to lock your bedroom door and then your bathroom door, and sooner or later you find a closet that fits them best, and shove them all inside, lock, and melt the key down and use it as your morning coffee mug.

Sooner or later you’re going to start to miss these things.

After all… they’re family.

They go from sleeping in the closet, to crawling into your bed.

They infect the words you say to the people you love.

They inhibit your love for those people from being true.

Sooner or later they will suffocate you… unless… you… unless I remember that these are my memories.

Unless I remember that my past only has as much power as I allow it.

Unless I suffocate them.


I’m Sorry

Nowadays the feeling of being lost comes naturally

I  scream, “God, why do I even feel anymore!?”
Although most of my nerves have gone numb,
I’m still able to feel the part of me that’s missing
the part of me you took
the part you still hold in your hands.
See, the key to borrowing is giving back
but what you gave back was a tidal wave of confusion
a tail spin into the destructive state that is true love
a mileage between two cities that brought distance between two hearts

never just a number
always a cause
the motivation for an example
a display case for a purpose
a measure of distance that brought us closer than ever
but yet further apart
living day to day life
has never been so hard
I’ve been waiting too long for an apologetic postcard
Maybe I’m too for gone
and maybe you still have my heart
and all your word are like bombs
causing mine to blow apart
Ive tried picking up the pieces
that shattered like glass
How do I even start to heal
when your love is like an infection
first my heart
then my hands
first my memories then my dreams
The only thing that haunts me
is my failure of an apology that lingers on my lips
and I’ve started to dream of you in colors that don’t even exist!
I’m sorry
two words
that never seem to be able to carry their own weight.
They just fall off my lips
no rhythm no rhyme
simply weighed down by the fear of goodbye
and I’d be stupid to think that it’ll fade with time
that it’ll become a broken memory in a broken mind
Every word that you said
sunk straight through my chest
and slowly burn a hole in my heart the size of one week
one week was all the time it took
for you to spell goodbye
and this time
you meant it.