Expanse (draft)


Expansion, constant and thorough, filled the empty space of nothing. Balls of gas swirled around and sank into themselves, and giant bits of earth and metal collided. It was a battlefield, a war zone.

Lights flashed in the dark and attracted followers, slowly but surely oscillating by and by. Little neighborhoods formed, stellar communities of spark and stone. Names didn’t exist, and time had just made itself a home.

After all of always, and when it had grown tired of crashing, exploding, and reforming, a world decided to be.

Fire grazed upon the land, scorching the earth of its bareness. The smoke became the sky and the night was forever, so it must’ve seemed. The heat eventually grew tired and drew itself to a rest inside the core.

The warmth and the cooling allowed a new settler to move upon the grounds, with some effort and determination — water.

It found itself to exist, free and invited, covering the place and soaking up deep, empty crevices.

The fires returned once more with fury, and other worlds found jealousy, entertaining the thought that they may knock the world from its observation of the light it so adores.

Terror once more raged above the skies.

When the troops had exhausted, one wavered peace and asked permission to observe and procure safety from any rebel offenders.

A faint, white smile above the face of a ravaged earth chose to stay.

Time again flowed like the water over the earth, passing by unnoticed for eternities. One day, or maybe night, a spark aroused, though not of light, but of life.

Singular, microbial, and persistent, it aimed to cherish.

Days and nights and years go by, and the life continued. It spread like a cancer on the crust of the dirt and soot. It flourished, changing and adapting to new environments. It walked. It crafted tools. It ventured. It painted. It danced. It lived.

Man is born.

Throughout this period of adaptation, the inanimate changed as well. The mass of the earth shifted, creating lands separate and divided by the cool waters.

Civilization is born. Kings and knights and captain’s plights to plunder forced to feed off the feebleness of the weak.

Powers fall. Towers stand to remind others of what brought down the greatest fighters.

History is made. Education arises, with technology, medicine, and carefulness—caution.

Life continues.

Modernization is born.

The earth that birthed such life is taken for granted. Life dwindles, with man being unforgiving.

Dust to dust.

From the stars we are born, and to the stars we shall return.

Human Canvas

These coffee stains upon my map make it hard enough to read, 

But you divide my sleep and count my sheep, creating cravings for more time with you.

You are my sails, yet still the wind,

Pushing me onwards out to see the sea of endless possibilities for all the things that I can be. 

I saw the sands of time swirling in my mind, and you the grain of curving glass that keeps my maddened thoughts intwined.

You curse the tears that stain my eyes and paint the skies aurora lights,

A flashing canvas of what-could-be’s, and yet I still see you and me.

Galaxies align and all the stars collide to burn away my clouded mind to keep me safe when you’re in sight. 

Of all things that I could paint or cast, or color-coat with candied laughter, 

Darling, it would never be more beautiful than you. 

Acceleration (Journal)

Now, hold up. 

I’m signing up for school. I’m about to register for classes, and I’ll be in a classroom taking notes by January 9th of next year. 

Hold up.

I’m thinking about my future here, folks. I’m going for an English degree, so I could do quite a few things. I could get into teaching or maybe even journalism. 

Hold up.

Am I planning to write for a living? Abso-fucking-lutely. Whether I write little poems with huge meanings like our very own Christopher Pointdexter, teaching or professing like some of my favorites, or even banking on a few novels like ol’ Nicolas Sparks. 

I will work for it, and I will be something. 


I could talk for hours about the wrinkles around your eyes when you smile, or the curve of your lips when you say my name. I could talk about how I love the way you look at me.

Your hair shines in any light, and I like the way you tie it up so tight, as if letting it down would be a sin. 

Your laughter sometimes makes me tense up, because I never want to go a day without it. 

You are truly something to hold close, and I want you to know that.

“What is your biggest regret?” (draft, personal)

I think my biggest regret in life very well may be the time I sold my first guitar to my ex girlfriend for $20 and a light blue pack of American Spirits. 

I believe that firsts are a precious endowment. Everyone remembers their first kiss, their first drive-in movie, their first fight. Everyone remembers their first fuck and their first time smoking weed.

Everyone remembers their firsts.

That glossy-black, faint-yellow rimmed, rustic-sounding, piece of poplar was my first guitar. 

I remember how I took my lessons for granted when I was young and let the strings gather dust for over two years. I remember when Jon and I wrote a song about Owen being a pansy on that guitar. I remember when I broke two strings at once, and when I dropped it trying to replace them and chipped the underside of the base. 

I never wore a strap with it. I didn’t like them then because it meant I’d be standing, and standing meant I’d be on a stage, and I was terrified of playing in front of others. 

But that was all with a Behringer

Nowadays, I’m picking on the Martin strings of a Recording King. It sounds better, and although it doesn’t have the feeling of my first guitar, I’ve written nearly twelve songs on this baby, with more either in progress or on the back burner. I love playing in front of people. I love to stand up and sing. I love making music, because music makes me feel alive, and, boy, do I love being me. 


I sat silently, surrounded by strangers. Dressed in my nice shoes, black pants, and white button up, I felt out of place. My long top hair, my array of wrist wear, and my unshaven face all made me different from the others, the people gathered for a funeral, my grandmother’s passing. 

The smell of cigarettes escaped the collars of my brother and myself, but the air in the room was much thicker. I listen to whispered words of comfort among the people as I unconsciously tapped my foot on the metal leg of the chair I found to be my seat.

Family piled in; The smiles were forced, it seems. The laughter was meant to cover up the pain of their loss. 

– and all I could think about was me. 

All I cared about was getting home. A funeral is no place for someone like me. A deadbeat hero with brass heart-strings, copper veins, and tattoo’d emotions. 

The prayer begins. I haven’t been a believer in years; That part is pretty null and almost offensive to me, but it brings comfort to some, so I muster the patience I need to move through it. 


“Saddle up; the war’s begun!
So, grab your boots! It’s time to run! 
Load your guns and grit your teeth.
This fight could last a century.”

“I saw with my eyes when there I stood
In the fields set fire and stained by blood,
Bodies scattered in the grasses
Like calm, still water over ashes.”

The war went on and on for years.
Parting countries, families, fears.
Life dwindled by and faded under 
Salted bones and sounds of thunder.

Wind carried screams for miles away
And heartbeats slowly stopped; decay
Set in around and down the backs
Of soldiers firing through the cracks

Of boards set up along the trenches.
Teary stares and empty benches,
Waiting wives and daughter smiles,
All stood near the landing aisles.

Some returned and others lost,
But every boy had paid the cost.
In life or death they knew their name,
But not a man came home the same.


You never really know

How much someone means to you

Until you watch them fall asleep.

Their breathing slows,

Your heartbeat slowly, but surely,

Matches theirs. 

Those little moments that they

Inhale deeply

Make you fear that they may wake.

Though, you assure yourself

That they’ll sleep soundly…

And they do.

They wake to see you sleeping

With a smile, and they smile back.

Break i n g 

I wear

My madness

Like a mask

And ask

The sands

Why my hands


Like leaves.

My trees,

Dear queen,

Are evergreen.

Not even Winter’s wind

Can’t extinguish

My shining

Silver linings

Like diamonds

Hiding under

Every rhyme,

But I,

The writer,

Hold the pen


I find it harder

With every word

To come across like

I’m not absurd.

My mind is mad

Like the hatter,

So I water 

My roots

With my blood

And my tears.

They flow out

From my veins

And into my eyes,

And down through

My fingers

To the pages,

They fly.

When it’s all said

And done,

I load up my gun,

With poetic bullets

And saber-toothed rhyme,

Then douse

The flames of my


Claiming in rashness

I swear it’s not sadness,


But madness.


The stars shine bright

On my nighttime


Revealing to me

All of my broken


Man, this town never

Looked so bleak.

If I could,

I would

Let my conscience speak.

Softly to me,

It whispers

Sweetly, singing

Songs of hope

Under starlight’s


I’m thinking

Now it’s time

To retreat



And aggravated,

I move my feet.

On the streets,

I meet people

Who fear

Their heart beat.

Drowning in feat

Of their own defeat–

They flee

Another direction

In their affairs.

These stairs never

Take me anywhere

I’m scared

That I’ll be here


Growing ever closer

Closer to Heaven’s eternity.