Housewares Show: Chicago

Chicago is overwhelming enough for me. The sights, the sounds, and constant stream of voices and activity between people, technology, and landscape. It’s practically an artwork of it’s own, one that I have grown to love, but at a respectful … Continue reading


Imago Dei

I’ve been struggling lately with this concept of Imago Dei. For those of you unfamiliar with the term it’s Latin for “In God’s Image” and is a concept all Christians are taught at usually a pretty young age, mainly because … Continue reading



I don’t know if

Imago Dei


God and I

Share a face

But if it does

I’d like to learn

Not to hate it



I wear my insecurities

Like Christmas lights

So they’re easy to see

But only at night



Out of all

The red brick houses

I find myself to be

A grey stone


Work Is Killing Me

I’ve probably said this before, and it certainly won’t be the last time I ever say it, but being a creative as a living can really drain a person. Not that it’s more draining than other jobs, but it’s more … Continue reading


An emotionally driven question…

What are my emotions worth if all they are,

is the result of my imperfect perception

possibly misinterpreting what I have heard?

We are clearly emotional beings,

because everyone has feelings.

Yet, I find myself grappling with this question,

because I find that so much in my life depends

on my emotions.

How can it be though?

When nearly all my emotions are through a lens of

imperfection, misinterpretation, and misinformation,

how is it that emotions

end up being the deciding factor for most things?

What good are they when they are more likely to be

misdirected, misunderstood, and misguided?


Competitive Poet

As if there isn’t enough pressure They demand poets come up with New ways to measure Each other like we’re Some kind of competition And that puts the poet In an awkward position Because last time I checked My feelings … Continue reading


Wisdom and Pain

I don’t have A thousand things to say Because at the end of the day Nothing I say ends up being heard So I filter Keep the things that seem simple…too simple Inside this mind Like a tiny prison of … Continue reading



He was not alone

Rejoined said with struggle

Home again he wanders

Blue and crimson in his bloodshot eyes

Buried in his own skin

Like the bullets his heart

Was so fond of catching

And holding fast too long

Those mists of the deep

Would not drag him to a grave

He would willingly march there

Were he breathless and without flag flying

Diligent and unwavering

Shut away from himself

Gone now to a place he could never seem

To bring himself back from