Sonnet #2

An insult, feeling life a spill
To hearts which sang but lungs that never gasped
The belly of Earth turns, though some, consistent still
A locket ultrasound unclasped

And Roman strength, here her tender surplus thrives
We struggle, three, over rust hued stone
Wondering if I’m more or less limbs of wasted lives
Each exhale mine, thine, belongs not to me alone

A debt owed, uncollected
Fixed betwixt my beloved gemini stars
And though we will never meet, we are connected
Despairing at life, these short cut memories mars.

Brothers, sisters, if your silent selves I have betrayed
Know that my soul will carry on, loud, in this charade.


Push. 1st draft.

Based off of a coffee conversation with Jocelyn yesterday, as well as “Direct Order”,  by Anis Mojgani, a favourite slam piece of mine. If I want anything for this piece, it’s for more. More everything.

Push – First Draft.

When your blood is stopped up in curds of fear. 

Because every walk will explode into a run when the time is right.

Pen across page.

To the front of the wolf pack,
aren’t you fucking hungry?

Like you want to say “I love you” and the train is pulling away.

And be pushed.

Push yourself,
Your friends
Your loves.

your haters to the brink.

The “abort self destruct sequence button” and save us all with ten seconds to live.

Like your on the 9th out of 10 kilometres and you see your mom at the finish line.

to be open,  to being pushed, because there are worlds enough inside of you,
it’s true,
but they deserve to be shared.

with continuous, circular, momentum of joy’s pedals
the moment they let the handlebars go
and you rolled solo, no training wheels for that first time

Your voice out of your mouth
Because she needs to hear it,
And depression doesn’t deserve the time of day from you.

Because I don’t care how small you feel right now
once, you were a TITAN
your mother bawling harder to bring you here than you did on your own arrival.




Sonnet #1

Shots cracked the marble night
Flint scrape, and muzzle spark
The resistance wasted to dirt, not flight
Eyes of dawn, set in faces of the dark.

The captain checked his cold timepiece
The squad, shaken, ambered brandy poured
And marked the second the romantics ceased
For bullet holes in flesh, they had seared and scored.

The squad, fresh trigger fingers trembling,
Hearing last words which could have been their own
Memories as tattoos for many nights fought, battles unending
When a war is civil, is it not fought alone?

They buried the rebels in their colours, the end of a new start
And spent the night regaling, battle of the Mind and Heart.

Oct. 29/ 11:14AM/ Romanticism Class

ImageBrassy light,
these sweeping winds sling feathers
spinning wheel spells, catching raw sunlight
the path, as page, as compass
and animal whimpers, howls, for dreams fear had put to sleep.

Whispering with the–
consonants of a shiver
in the moment while the meridians still spin
’til earth’s portrait,
kissed by valleys of fingerprints

Another layover
turns your veins into two lane highways
slicing through rusty dirt nowhere
needle pricks of stars under skies without end,
to a trading posts at the crossroads,
that will take all you love, for all you long for.