Flesh and blood compose my parts
bones and tissue, a beating heart,
a human brain with few dysfunctions,
zero defects, minor compunctions.
Organic human, born and bred,
living, breathing, you’re real, they said.
Naturally human, I struggle to be,
so why is this so difficult for me?


Wasting the Moment

All men must die
but why think of winter
when spring lingers?
Dwelling does not dismiss
the bitterness that unbiddenly
seeps into even courageous hearts.
Better to wrap yourself in the moment
than to ingest impending doom
a poison we shall all know in time.
Follow your passions, enjoy your days
for they run into the next swiftly
until they slow to a trickle…
until they are gone altogether…
and perhaps you are remembered
as a villain or a saint,
but it remains increasingly likely
that oblivion shall claim you for its own
since this is what you waste your time doing.


I am a nightmare even on the best of days,
forever toting anxiety, such a heavy burden
and a reluctance to hide how I really feel
all the while being contrary enough
to make an attempt that muddles my nature.

Easygoing was never an accusation flung my way,
down to earth is out of the question.
But deception is a murky pond with no visible end
and I will try my best to make you believe otherwise
while feeling contemptuous of those who wear such labels.

Even my finer points aren’t worth much discussion.
I’m okay, at best, with nothing of excellence to note,
but I can fake interesting like a child fakes the flu;
semi-believable, but nobody really buys it.
Fraudulently endearing myself, or hoping to at least.