Love is a choice…

I never understood love to be a choice – until now. We’ve always heard that love is patient, love is kind, love is slow to anger, and love is not-self serving – lines that sound great in a birthday card or maybe a tattoo, but seem to rarely be put into practice. How often are we kind to one another? How often are we patient with one another? How often are we quick to be angry? How often are we self-serving? A lot.

We demonstrate love when we choose to be patient and when we are kind to one another. We demonstrate love when we serve other and when we are slow to become angry. Love is the choice to keep doing these things when everything else seems like it’s going to hell in a handbasket. Love perserveres and the reason it does is because we consistently choose to be patient and kind and servient to those that we claim we love – and even those we don’t.

Love is sometimes hard to give. It is difficult to choose patience when it would be easier to be angry and lash out. It is difficult to remain calm when someone does something to offend us. It is difficult to serve others when we feel that they are not serving us. Love is humble, too. Love is stepping back from where you’ve been and saying “yep, I messed up.”

Love is a choice that we make everyday.



He’s like an angry lover
with his hands around her throat
and his whispers in her ear.
She can feel him touching
all her secret places –
her heart
her soul
her thoughts
He’s inside her,
like the devil he is.
He finds the cracks
in her heart and rips
and rips until she can’t
find enough pieces
to make half of a whole.
He tries to suffocate her
in crowded rooms
and it’s so hard to walk
across the parking lot
when he’s dragging her down
like a ball and chain
around her neck.
No one sees.
No one notices.
She’d scream but he’s got
his hand over her mouth
and he forces her words away.
They can’t see him,
they can’t feel him.
But he’s there all the same.
She can hear him laugh,
when she tries to escape.
When she tries to be stronger
One day he’ll kill her
If she doesn’t escape.
If he doesn’t let her go.
If she can’t shake him –
and she’ll have to do it alone
because no one sees
no one notices
no one.


A Diner Sits Two Places Down From A Red Light

In case anyone is interested, I self-published a chapbook on Amazon. It’s free for the next four days (including today). It’s not perfect, but it’s the first one I ever did so I’m okay with that. I’ll post the link below. It’s for kindle, but you can read it using several different apps.




tell me.

Tell me,
does it burn the roof
of your bitter mouth,
those harsh,
cold, cold words you spout
when you look in those
dark brown oval eyes?
Tell me,
does it make you cringe
on the inside,
every time you tell that
little boy
that he
should, maybe, just go die?
Tell me,
how do you do it?
How do you get so damn
God-awful hateful
that you could dismiss
the plight of someone
you don’t. even. know.
based on false premises
and stereotypes?
Tell me,
how does it feel
to know that you could be
the person to pull
the trigger on the
hypothetical gun.
I hope you feel it,
someday, that burden.
I hope you know what
exactly what you’ve done.




It’ll consume you.
It’ll burn through you
like a fire you don’t want to
be warmed by.
It’ll control you.
It’ll hold you, steer you
right into the flames of
whatever you’re most afraid of.
It’ll seep through you.
It’ll poison your heart
and your mind and your thoughts
until they’re just black. Real black.
It’ll drown you.
It will hold you underneath
every failure and mistake
that you have every made
until you cannot breathe.
So don’t let it.
Do. Not. Let. It.
Consume you.
Control you.
Poison you.
Drown you.

If you have to burn,
let it be passion.
Let your dreams guide you.
Let love seep through you.
Drown yourself in the happiness
that you deserve no matter
what mistake you made.
You’re not a failure.
You’re more than that.
So. Much. More.


gun smoke.

I see you, ready for war
with your gun and your attitude.
I see you there, armed too
with your judicial vigilantism;
your sentence would be swift,
in theory. Painless even.
I am not blind to what you see.
I see the world for what it is;
broken, but beautifully so.
broken, but tragically so.

I hope you never have to see
the aftermath of what I know
you’re capable of. I hope.
So beautiful through the haze
of a gun that’ll never stop smokin’.
Thing is, the thing is,
they were beautiful too.
Broken, but beautifully so.
Broken, but tragically so.


devil’s choir.

stained glass and steeples
crucifixion, gold Jesus
holy water in the offering plate.
preacher man prays,
piano man plays,
are you saved?
are you saved?
hard pews and a choir,
homecoming, bible study
welcome all,
come one, come all.

bring us your wounded,
just not too deep.
He bled for you,
but please don’t bleed on the pew.
please keep your rainbow ‘brellas
in the coat closet.
at your house.
it might be raining,
but this Bread’s not for you.
and you’re too dirty
for this holy water.
even Jesus couldn’t wash you clean.

stained with pretenses,
stabbed with a spire.
crucified in the public eye,
not worth as much as gold Jesus.
drowned by holy water
in the offering plate.
preacher man prays,
piano man plays,
are you saved?
are you saved?
hard hearts and a devil’s choir
no home to go to, church sign says
welcome all,
come one, come all.