i pledge allegiance to the media.

am i proud to be an american, where
at least i know i'm free

define for me this freedom
we have fought for, these
rights we possess

are we here because of anything more than a
selfish refusal to yield to your pulpit
in our pursuit of religious freedom, we have
accomplished instead an apathy for
any and all god-based faith

define for me this happiness
we have fought for

explain to me why a country with the freedom to
pursue happiness by our own means has been
brainwashed into a materialistic, media-driven and
selfish nation, instead yielding
a miserable people

we are free to speak, and still we are
mesmerized by anyone willing to
speak for us

we could protect all that is sacred, the very
lifeblood of our own constitution, but instead we
feel disgruntled and

we are free from
unreasonable search and seizure, but we have
instead invited the circus into
our own homes via our
seventy-two inches plasma, and the
honest, trusted digital voice
speaking to our hearts through surround

free indeed.


i want to be swept off my tired feet.


world peace is for beauty queens.

we busied ourselves with our own
advancement and we failed to
care for the widow and
feed the orphans and
love the earth and now we have
fallen to pieces

we are so overwhelmed by the problem and
unsure how to fix it, our sense of
obligation diminishing as we have
forgotten that this monster is
a result of our own



she has been tried and found

hiding, indulging her fear of heartbreak,

trapped inside her own
quiet admiration and
self-fulfilling rejection

wishing she could 'unlike' people as easily as
posted items on the
world wide web, but that
anonymity and ease does not
translate to
real life

afraid to speak or
breathe or
look in his
general direction,
instead gazing intently at
her own two feet

she will never have to get hurt, never
have to let him go, never

have him at all
at this rate


old flames are
always much dimmer after
the years pass by and we
found we have
outgrown them

you're a million miles away, and i can't help but
wonder when the day will come that i'll
outgrow you

but i find myself happy here, like a
toys-r-us kid, i don't want to
grow up, i'd rather grow
into you than past
this feeling


under the sky.

the wisps in the clouds, and their
ever-changing variations of elegance, they tell me i
am not alone in my desire for
things beautiful and

with the sky as a canvas, he
paints me beautiful pictures all
the day long, and i
feel at home under the sky until i
fly away, o glory


a thousand words.

if the picture my life paints is
only half finished, is it still
worth a thousand words?

and what arrangement might those words
find themselves in?

a comedy or tragedy or an
incoherent stream of thought
an unfinished romance or a half-hearted
yet well-intentioned sermon i preach from my
less-than-entitled pedestal

whatever form they take, i hope they
find themselves beautiful and
honest and



deem fiction a substance and
myself an abuser

if i can escape this
mundane existence, even
momentarily, i will
return like an
80's lab rat administering its own
slow heroin death

my heroin the heroine
her might, her bravery, her



all she wants is to be a part of something
but she doesn't believe it could be
something beautiful

instead, she wastes away in
the arms of a lover who doesn't even like her,
in a perfect job she hates,
friendly dates she can't stand

in an ever-present never enough

her friends are constantly doing, but never
doing enough
neighbors caring, but never
caring enough

so she climbs into his bed and comes home
angry that he takes advantage
circling his home in the shadows and never
at his side, where she longs to be

rejecting everyone else, so she remains
frail and broken and pitied, because at least then she
gets his attention, gets our
attention and goes



i am an open book. of the
paperback persuasion

hardcover may be the
cover of choice for
classic beauty and for
durability and
what have you

while i am frail and i bend and
i fall apart, i am
composed of the same
confession-filled sonnets, guised
as delicate arrangements of
imagination, and
ideas so misconstrued

if a book will be judged by its cover,
let them see it rough around the edges and
worn with time

let them see it without makeup or
plucking or primping or
manicures or hundred-dollar hair

let them see it honest and real and
let them see me



i wish all my mistakes were
at the beginning of the roll, when you can just
take it out and
start all over again, but
here i am at exposure twenty two and
the lens won't focus and
i'm already knee deep, committed, zooming
in and out and
in again, still
feeling around in the dark, still
trying to make it work, still
pressing to capture when i should just
leave it alone

now it's finished, my
wallet a little lighter, my
heart a little heavier and all i'm left with is a



rooftops and cigarettes and
classic novels and instrumental ambient and
espresso and warm rain can never
provide quite enough of an


still, i sit here atop these
twenty four stories with my own so
unfinished, where cars are distant
fireflies in the night



the everyday.

today, there is no crayon chaos, just
art, just
you and me and
no mess, just
exploration and discovery and
fascination and growth, i want to be
less caught up and
more slowed down, not
worried about creating the
perfect life, but taking the
time to just
enjoy the one we have, enjoy

the universe is heavy.

so much of the time i am
broken in so many places, in my
back and my heart and my
pocketbook, and i
feel the weight of the world on my
shoulders, and i
guess i'm finally figuring out that
maybe it's just that the universe feels so
much heavier because you're
so near, and you're
the one holding it all together while still
holding me

life flows different than prose.

i try to write prose in little
bite-sized pieces, never
overwhelming the reader, never
losing the a.d.d. kid with too many
run-on sentences

line breaks that keep you
holding on for something, keep you
shifting your eyes to the left to see
what's coming next, but i
am not like this in real life

i try to get to know people in little
bite-sized pieces, never
overwhelming the new guy, never
losing your interest with my
deeply flawed character

but life does not flow like prose, does not
skim past the boring parts, does not
forgive mistakes like a
misspelled word, and does not
have delete or backspace or
save as draft, just has
real, unedited, imperfect and
beautiful rhythm, and i guess that's
pretty alright if i can just
stay on tempo and



fragmented pieces of my
life from here and there and
everywhere, all the
incompletes that have cost me so
much sleep and sanity are
now slowly coming together to
form a picture perfect life, like a
mosaic of everything i thought was
just broken, and i
am overjoyed, and i
am wondering how i
could ever have doubted you


a most beautiful masquerade.

frowns upside down by daylight, i am
a work in progress, i am
flawed but getting there, and i am
a liar

i offer my confession of sins that are
humble in admittance, the real
skeletons buried deeper, out of
sight & mind

but the truth of the matter is a much
uglier monster, it is
beans spilled the second you
cross me, it is
critical and annoyed and it is
otherwise damaged as i
struggle to make it to
the end of the day still in
one piece, still okay with
the world at large

frowns upside down by daylight, i am
a work in progress, i am
flawed but getting there, and i am
a liar, but i am
coming to terms with
myself and
beckoning change



she's not a happy girl for
rent to own, to
put on layaway until you're
ready to buy
without bantering or markdowns re:
damaged merchandise, she is
full price, all or nothing
no refunds or exchanges, she's been
bravely on display, and she's been
picked up and put down and picked
up again
her feet downtrodden with the
traffic over time, her
heart weary and broken, and still
growing back stronger, still
burning hope for tomorrow and she is
waiting for forever to
find her and wisp her



the world is a big mess of color and
delicate arrangments of visual melody
and my small part is like a
black and white sketch in a gallery of
mixed media

if i am black and white, then you
are color

you are beautiful and vibrant and i am
simply shades of gray
i am nothing more than a xerox copy of
a classic monet or rembrant

not worthy to hang in the same hall, still...
i do

all the glory may be diminished in the
black ink's attempt to imitate the beauty and
depth of color

still you find joy in this, in my
frail attempts at purity, my selfish
attempts at goodness, and my
feeble attempts at making my life a self-portrait of
everything you embody

not only because the simple lines i draw only
accentuate your intensity, but because you honestly and
deeply appreciate my


i am lowercase.

my heart breaks to the rhythm of
soft and tired cries, of
miniature frowns and
baby falling down

i am but a small instrument in this
song of joy, of tragedy and
triumph and
of life

what once grew inside of me is
so much bigger than myself, so
infinitely beautiful, and was always so
gloriously unfathomable

i'm giddy like a 12yo aoler
typing in aLtErNaTinG CaPs, but i
am lowercase

i am simply details
the diaper changing,
food making, milk producing, laundry doing

you are innocence, the
essence of purity, you are
growing into something awe-inspiring, and you brought out
all that is beautiful in me


all of life is art.

all of life is art. it is bicycle reflectors in a tree. what was once perhaps originally intended to warn groggy drivers and cyclers has been wielded into an ever-growing & changing work of art.

art is more than a brushstroke. it is in the imagination and spontaneity that drives a person to do something unheard of. something out of character. something becoming of us and heartfelt and vulnerable and honest. it is a thing of beauty, and it's what gets me out of bed each dreary morning.

inside us all is something beautiful, something longing to be created. if we let it, it will consume us. pour out of us.

it is creating something from nothing. it is lining the walls of your house with paper so that your child can create something magical out of crayon chaos. it is the rainbow array of shirts in your color-coded closet. how you wear your makeup and hair and piece together your wardrobe. it is in the layout of your home and the decor on your walls. the way you make your bed in the morning. how you see and interpret the world around you, in your own unique fashion. it is what you breathe. it is you, and it is me. and it is waiting.

break from your routine tomorrow. be spontaneous. breathe life into the creative person inside you. and live inspired.


inspiration fail.

/lack of inspiration for
-words that fall short despite
+sincere aspirations and
+heartfelt pleas played out on my

/discontentment and manic swings and
-negativity and criticism and
-unsolicited advice regarding how
+everyone, especially myself, can
#unfail at life

/exhaustion from
@zebediahdean, the single greatest
+thing ever to happen to me

\something deeper, something
+magical. life born from mine and
+somehow still so beautiful
-in spite of me

\fascination, unending awe and
+learning to love, and
+finding a better person inside, a
+whole person, who held
+life in her womb, who
+found hope and who
+has seen beauty

+who is whole and
+inspired far beyond words, but who
+will write in valiant effort to
+share it with the #world

/ signifies the ending of something, \ the beginning. - negative aspects. + positive aspects. * a filler, and # tweet trends that i don't understand.


my sin.

single motherhood is
never a thing of beauty but
always a thing of haste, of
poor decision making and
back slidden sinners
on the road straight to hell

always slutty and
never unlucky

always irresponsible and
never weak or
flawed or
simply human

we must save her, must
usher her back into the faith and
forgive her lifestyle and
never realize how easily it could be us
while we
condemn! condemn! condemn!