Start of the Day


Who is there at the start of the day?
It’s not that I don’t care who is present at the end,
But both truly matter to me.

If I’m scared,
Come and hold me.
If I’m tired,
Let me rest.
If I’m snappy,
Come and trim me; tell me that I’m incorrect.

It’s always hard to remember that other people have busy lives and important ties.
Not everyone can come at the drop of a hat.
I respect those that remind me of that.
But those that leave me guessing,
Well, you’ll see that I went offline in the midst of our chat.

Be there when you can,
Let me know when you can’t.
It’s okay, we’re adults.
I’m not trying to hurdle insults.


For Ruben


Sometimes we feel like a baked potato;
Out for too long,
Overly or underly dressed,
Feeling like a hot mess.

Other days we’re the wrongfully-hyped and entirely-saturated lump of mash potatoes.
Smooth and creamy,
Maybe lacking in depth,
But good enough to call satisfying.

On our best days we’re those gold and crispy fries,
That others want by the handful.
Some may call us rather too salty,
Others may say that we’re too greasy.
But, all in all, we’ve reached the peak of the moutain;
The top of the ladder.

Yet, nothing could make me sadder.
Let me be a hot mess if I want to,
A bitter lump if need be,
But never cage me into one category,
One characteristic,
And surely never the basis of one word.
I am from the earth,
And I am interchangeable.
This is why I am so relatable.



I put them in my shoes.
They’re looking back at me,
Afraid and confused.
You see,
I’m holding the bomb,
They’re trying to diffuse.
I hold the key,
And I know they want me to lose.

You won’t grasp it,
Until it confronts you.
Maybe you’d understand,
And maybe you’d cry too.

But the scenarios don’t change.
We don’t swap for what’s best.
We remain who we are,
Never pondering what we’re not.

This is me,
They are they.
I won’t go out to play today,
Or tomorrow or the day after,
Because they transposed fear out of my laughter.



The only thing harder than trying,

Is losing.

So I’ll skim through past musings.

Looking for what?

Some type of sure-fire win strategy,

Or at least a shortcut.

But where is the fun in that?

Some people are in it for the challenge.

I, myself, don’t like dragging limp legs over thorn-embedded obstacles.

That is far from optimal.

Give me the easy route,

Covered in motivational phrases;

Drowning in good times.

I really want to win,

But I know how losing would feel.

So I’ll come back to this ideal.

It is for another time and place,

Maybe for a different soul with a different face.


Frame: Two by Two


I tilted the frame,

So you could squeeze into it.

There’s room for two,

Me, and I suppose, you.

I’ll leave it kind of loose;

Missing it’s final screw,

In case this luxury becomes a noose.

Jumping Rooms Unmarkedness


I wish I can catch the vase while it falls,

But the floor itself can display the skid marks from too many times tried.

I was so close the last time.

Nearly caught it,

Cutting myself in the process.

I just can’t try again once more.

It’s not that I wish to give up,

But I know the outcome all the same.

And I know that a new vase will replace it.

It’s time to enjoy another room;

Another preciousness,

Preferably one of less tepidness.



I don’t stream down the aisles much.

There’s too much to see,

Too little well spent.

You can hear the clang between forgotten cents.


Get dazed by the colors;

The labels emphasizing uncertainties left and right.

“It’s the best ever dared tasted!”

I’m sure it is all wasted.


I’ll drag myself to the counter,

Re-evaluate my life choices.

What’s brought me here, to this moment,

To believe that what’s in my cart are necessities,

And what I left no more than vanities.


Consumption is king.

Re-purposing, it’s suppressed brother.

If that is the king,

Then call me an anarchist.

It is a life far less glamorous.