Tidbits of morsels of delight(edness)

(From the children young young children)

Tending to darkness let me free

Let me free tending to darkness

No ultimatum no opposition to this goal of recovery

That there were lesser ideals scarcely falls on deaf ears

Limited in notion, I do my best in any regard

Winding down the clock for a specific chunk, not too long,

Of time during which to write this, a poem, about

Possibly nature

Possible consciousness

Possibly the human condition

Not knowing until the end

And possibly even after that

If we accomplished what we set out to do

Hand Shake

This ebb and flow of the words finding me

Or not finding me

More often not

And then trying to piece together what ideas are swimming in my mind

To piece them together

Because they are so unclear that God forbid they be presentable at the outset

Fallen on an island

Is the significance of the location any different

Than falling in a forest

Or in the concrete jungle?

These abstract notions of things like Systems, and Infrastructure

So hard to grasp, yet it seems like every teenager is due for a wrestling match (with them)

For some reason we do not give our youth concrete problems to solve

That they could do so much better if they were given so

And that I may still be considered youth

Me, in my thirties, young, seems laughable, having been young my whole life

That now I am older than I have ever been

And that this statement will always be true

You don’t grow young but I feel like we should all try to

But perhaps that is just more arm-flailing

Something I have been fond of against my will as of late

To spit in the spittoon and not hear the resonance

Because the money doesn’t want me

And the money doesn’t want my skills

And the money doesn’t want my soul

Or maybe I should feel lucky

That the wolves are not gnawing at my bones

But they do! And do they not?

This nagging nagging from nowhere to make money, produce, labor, toil

Toil toil toil

I don’t want to work in a lab

That’s the be all end of it

And I’m putting my foot down

I’m not getting a job in science

(Unless it’s really in writing, who cares what it’s about)

I want to be employed in the arts, in the creation

The industry name: Creation

Wouldn’t it sell better then?

But to rambling I seem to have set myself

And to no productivity it seems to come of it

As for grammar, I have had a dearth of it in the late

And I don’t know where to go for addendums

Your heart I wish to grab

It’s how I shake hands

But so many recoil at the sight of me

So maybe we just read each other’s words for now

So Why Don’t You Do It?

This one’s going to flow

Not because of song

Or dance

But because I will give myself permission to say as I please

How I please

Never mind the metacognition of the piece

Or the peace

Really, because, what is peace but understanding

And how do you understand sound but by similarity?

Father, asleep on the floor, laughs in his sleep

I agree, though, with laughter

So why not laugh too


The art-craft of being able to flow

To let your words choose you like you choose them

I+ Impulsively

S/ Sensorily


To steal the soul of language and to paste it like a beacon

Onto digital paper


To think that too little would be enough

And to know that more is always welcome

What else serves such luxury?

As much as you want

As much as you want

To see-hear the words and their meaning

To feel-touch the desire of communication from within


Pronunciation /vəˈlēədē/ /vəˈliədi/ /veˈlēədē/ /vɛˈliədi/ 



  • A wish or inclination not strong enough to lead to action.


Early 17th century from medieval Latin velleitas, from Latin velle ‘to wish’.


Burning legs find my eyes watching the trees pass by me


As the road recedes behind me, too

The eyes in the back of my head watching the past

I am walking toward a place

That will be different

And then there will be jewels in my ears

And I will hear how crystalline proper you were to me, darling

Someday I will understand

How it all came to be

That without a separate reason for each step along the path

I will run out of reasons to count you my savior

My hero and paragon,

Who rescued me from the plight of heartlessness

In These Words

I find that it is somewhat a dishonesty to disregard how I lose myself in these words, for I do and do strongly

And to not consider this at least daily is a sin on me from myself

It hurts no one but everyone who cares

And the readers are there, awaiting me

And the readers are there

Written based off a true story. Poetry is sometimes my only solace and still, then, I forget about it. I must not forget about it.