Over the last two years, I have found myself delving deeper and deeper into poetry and its many enchanting forms, and it has been truly rewarding. I find myself being able to put my feelings into verse and tell my stories in just a few short lines. I'm far from Robert Frost or really anyone of any poetic importance, but I care about words and about stories, so I'm sharing mine.

This poem is a part of my story. A chapter full of change, deep sadness, exploration and finality.

Private Isle

You called me yesterday—

Asked me about my health

But I couldn’t talk to you,

Hell, I can’t even talk to myself

I keep sending messages

But you never reply,

Unopened bottles on

The shore of your private isle

You don’t give a damn

I know, you’ve made that all too clear

But I keep floating scrolls across

The Pacific in semi-spheres

I went so far away

And didn’t come right back

But here I sit on the stove,

Calling the kettle black

You fell asleep again,

I can hear it in your voice

Honest as a drunk man

Only a child would have that word choice

I heard your voice yesterday

And a signal in my brain

Went off in a cascade transduction

Singing about Hollywood and fame

You left for the south,

A bird with broken wings.

Screeching about politics

And a boy who couldn’t sing

I felt so empty,

A tin can full of hate—

A collage of torn up magazines

You left me like I left you.

I keep sending messages

But you never reply.

Opened and smashed bottles

On the shore of your pacific isle

Parchment burning on the pier

All those scrolls I floated

Across the Pacific in semi-spheres

Well,

None of them

Stopped us from getting here.