“I stand on the corner and observe, watch the boys claiming to be men have cleaner fingernails then my mother.”
“I leaned up against the rail by the water. Bent my head down and lit a cigarette, he handed you an ice cream cone, you always did love a good cliche, and I suppose he looked decent enough, seemed about as useful as an ottoman.”
“Sorting through pictures taken from wood with images of myself from another millennia, a familiar smile returns, I feel it, I don’t have to look at a mirrors reflection to see it as I say, ‘Good job kid.’”
“Petty said, “I won’t back down, I’ll Stand my ground, You can stand me up at the gates of hell, But I won't back down.” I don’t want to see you again; or think of your sins—or mine, for that matter.”
I started the project with today’s reader in mind. It’s not that we don’t like to read anymore, but rather our bandwidth has become so littered by things trying to constantly grab our attention that most of us don’t have the time to sit down with a 1,000 page novel.
But, yet we still long for that conversation, that dialogue, and that connection with an author that only reading can give.
So, what better way than through the stories contained in free verse poetry?
The work, that I call 30 Something, is a collection of poems, from my perspective, of what it’s like to be an adult in today’s world. Regardless of race or gender or religion life is more universal than we might think. For all of us it contains wins and losses, pride and shame, sorrow so deep that we can sink in it and joy so full of air that we can float up to heaven's gate.
I’m writing it over the time period of a year and organizing by the calendar seasons. Spring, representing the growth of creativity; summer, incorporating the delight of life; autumn, displaying the maturity that only the trials of life can bring; and winter, revealing that a metaphorical death is sometimes needed to bring about the birth of a new self.
I release a new poem twice a week on my Instagram account—every Tuesday and Thursday.
Won’t you read one?
“The thirties have been called the happiest years, not yet old, but no longer young, we can still run,but as our pace becomes limited, our focus can become clear. If we let it.”
“One cigarette after another, as he recalled his earlier years. I had heard all these stories during my childhood, but lately they are rightly refined, as only time can do—syllables sliced, sentences shortened, tied tightly together with the correct conjunctions.”
“I wake up two hours past my alarm. My head is on the table across the room. I look into its eyes and they don’t turn away—instead they stare in at a shame or pain, that’s not shaken nor stirred, but a cocktail mixture of both.”