I wish I could dream myself a part in all the unrealized promises we inscribed into the air with our fingers. It must be a trick of the heart to believe we can filter through history so easily. It’s all about misjudging distance and time. It’s convincing ourselves the present moment is anything other than the present. It’s pretending like our two scripts are naturally part of the same narrative.

Friendship, present tense, the kind of wind that pushes the sail instead of whispers, is so often the distance between your fingertips and mine: and only sometimes as far as both our ropes will lasso–judging that both of us are willing to hold on. The future is a quilt. The future is the moments we weave together in the present to arrive in a mutually interconnected space.

The end of any college semester is both a relief and heart breaking. High school was easy. Everyone you know is close: the faces familiar. This is not true of the University. I have not maintained a meaningful, day-to-day relationship with anyone outside of my classes, and once the classes are over so goes the relationship. I think people are more comfortable using my mind than knowing it.

Going out for coffee once every 2 months and “catching up” is not friendship. That doesn’t mean that I don’t still admire and love the people that I meet and know; however, how does one actually catch up? How do you rewrite your past to include someone who was never there? How can you take seriously the proposition of someone listening to you when the second you walk out the door they’ve already forgotten you because literally you are a fraction of a fraction of their daily existence?

The end of the semester is always daunting because it feels like while I’m progressing, I’m also resetting. It’s funny how coming out of high school I actually bought into the idea that college would be “the best four years of my life.” I think the better phrase is actually “the next four years of my life.”

You go at life alone and hold to those who follow close behind. Apparently, I’m not much to hold to. Here’s to hoping that will change.

Look past me:

Look past me
Like you’ve done,
Like I’m invisible,
Like you’ve forgotten
All about me.
Pay no notice
To the time,
The place,the
Mood we shared;
It’s often so
Clear that you
Never once cared,
Or considered anything
Beyond the surface,
As if I
Were erasable, a
Scratch off ticket,
A sunset never
Meant to rise
Again. I write
This knowing you’ll
Never see it,
And, if you
Do, never knowing
It was these
Words that were
Volleyed at you.
There you’ll sit
Not knowing the
Pain you’ve caused,
Counting each three
Word set like
A trinity, feeling
The gravity rising,
Reeling as the
Guilt is buried
Where you’re blackened
Heart still hides
As a coward.
You’ll look past
All of this,
Like you’ve looked
Past me so
Many times before.
You’ll revel in
The excuses you’ve
Made for yourself,
And look past
The sinking reality,
Which is your
Shattered and unbearably
Altered conscience. Morality
Is forever unquestioned.
The past is
Incessantly at the
Forefront of decisions.
Time is always
Stopped in the
Warped perception of
Your selfish reasoning.
Look past me.
Search for what
You’ll never find,
What you ungratefully
Get the second
Chance to fulfill,
And how it
Has all come
To be. Undoubtedly
You’ll see yourself
Standing snark, headlong,
And falsely righteous.
So go on.
I’ve accepted everything.
Go live free
From any worry,
Or regret, or
Sense of remorse.
Some part of
Me waits in
Those dark parts
Of the past;
A part of
Me stolen and
Cast like a
Sickly triumphant memorial
Of the scars
I’ve left behind.
A part of
Me waits in
Those dark woods
That I wandered
So often afraid.
You’ll look past
Me. Living the
Lie you’ve always
Kept artificially close.
That part of
Me left behind
Will stay there.
Waiting for the
Apology it knows
It will never

Lane Boy:

Tomorrow’s dance was yesterday’s:




Tomorrow’s dance was yesterday’s:




Tomorrow’s dance was yesterday’s:





Tomorrow’s Dance was yesterday’s:



Tomorrow’s dance was yesterday’s: