Sometimes looking back

you get livid with yourself

for being angry/pathetic/vulnerable when you shouldn’t have been

the permanence of the past rapping at the chamber door to your soul

find solace in the fact that while the past is permanent

the past has passed


All I can write are love songs,

Nothing’s perfect, things still feel worthless some moments, but I’m writing love songs,

Money down the drain and bills remain, yet does it matter if we’re kissing in the spring?

I hate it, but you fill my head with rhyming melodies,

Even when I’m annoyed, or feeling blue,

An embrace and I’m swimming in metaphors and major keys –

So I take a half an hour alone to stew, ’til I’m enraptured once again by you.


charm, magnetism, charisma, 

magic, witchcraft –

all the same names for


City of Angels

 Out too early, in too late,

Scars that run for miles.

Much too much to mend,

Hidden behind pressed shirts/sunglasses.

Yesterday’s sins buried in the grass,

The city gleams, pristine,

As if nothing’s ever happened.