Bled Out Onto a Page

Feel. Release. Heal.

4 notes

You have no idea how difficult it is to get on a stage and compete against musicians. People don’t know how to take what I do, sometimes. I should really learn guitar.

2 notes

Every time
You get back up
The hole will be deeper
The climb much steeper
It’s more difficult
Is what I’m saying.

Hope you
Were training
In the offseason.

Filed under a shitty poem

9 notes

I get it
I can see my faults.
I know I’m distant
I self medicate too frequently
In truth
I’m a goddamn mess.

But sometimes
I’ll catch a smile
Or a look
And I see the echo
Of the woman
I fell in love with.

It’s those moments
Which make the nightly
Quite difficult.

But I get it
I do.
I never claimed to be perfect
But you continue
To love me anyway.

Funny, that…

Filed under poem poetry spilled ink

1 note

Anonymous asked: How did the open mic go???

It went pretty well. Thank you, Anon. It was a real quiet, intimate show and there were some pretty stellar musicians and it was a joy to hear them play.

If the bewildered looks I received are any indication, I nailed it as well.

2 notes

The first mistake everyone makes is convincing themselves that love is this invincible, eternal thing. We hold it up as a shield expecting it to take all the punishment the world dishes out.

But love is too fragile to survive that. It needs to be nurtured and kept out of harms way. It’ll break.

You can rebuild it, sure, but it’ll be even weaker than it was before. Then, eventually, it won’t even be able to stand five seconds without collapsing.

It should have always been protected.

Said to her, cuddled in the dark, watching what was left of ours on life support while talking about whether or not the plug should be pulled.

22 notes


Forever is a hard word
For me to comprehend
Especially in regards
To being with another.

Staying with someone
After the passion dries up
And the words
“I love you”
Are little more
Than a hushed,
Mostly forced
Addendum to a farewell.

An afterthought.

For many
It’s this phase
Which is the goal
long sought after.
I can’t think of a more
End game.

Maybe monogamy
Is truly at its best
In two week
At least this way
You always quit
When you’re ahead.

From a year ago

Filed under poem poetry spilled ink