a bit better · An odd sort of Poetry

about people

I used to write more about people,
not just people I knew,
but strangers too.
I don’t remember why I stopped.
Somebody has to write about these people.

And if I don’t
maybe they’ll disappear
into nothing,
without even my small small words
to keep them living
in their small small ways.

a bit better · An odd sort of Poetry · I Just Might Be OKAY Without YOU · words for the boy who broke my heart

something blue


your hello started something in me

something I never got to finish

I had hoped

we would finish it together


hope is always ill-advised


it is hard to finish a thing

you could never define


scraps and scribbles

memories and notes

aren’t enough


all that’s left to work with

is blue:

blue eyes and heavy tears

blue journals and boutonnieres

blue pills and that

blue lace

everything blue was always for you.

everything blue still is.


but I think you started something in me

with your goodbye

I think I’ve started changing colors

because I no longer want to be blue.

a bit better · An odd sort of Poetry

something worth loving


I desperately want to be the things that I love…

I want to become something worth loving.


I want to be the smell in the air after the rain.

I want to be tired arms and chalked up palms.

I want to be a smile to a bright eyed stranger

and the songs stuck in my head.

I want to be the photographs worth taking

and the art that forces me to close my eyes.

I want to be the trains that pass by

and all the places they’ll ever go and have ever gone.

I want to be the golden Spanish seaside

and all the languages I cannot understand.

I want to be something;

Someone outside of just me.

a bit better · An odd sort of Poetry

work of art

I used to be afraid of pictures.

the way the lens could capture a moment in time

unsettled me.


it captures all of the things:

the good.

the bad.

and me:

a mix of both maybe

leaning towards one side over the other.

I haven’t decided which though.


I used to be afraid of how people could judge me

if I was trapped in a photo,

how I would judge myself.

not anymore;

photos are art.

Who am I (who is anyone)

to judge a work of art?