The people of these streets

The men, the women, the people of these streets are leading lives incomplete, feasting on the realities of the cold world’s hard concrete. They face the drugs, the drink, and an inability to work, to act, to even think of oneself even though they may find themselves on brink.

The cliffs of life are heavy here; the people waiting to drop off the edge without regard for what may lie below. They hang on by a thread, to the coarse edges of the bread that lays scattered around them as they sleep spread across the dark streets of nighttime dread.

The lifeless walk to the end of an addict’s life sits at the lines blurred between wrong and right, between their throbbing veins that pursue them to the edge of a fight or flight response to daily life.

They are perched, hovering in gasping breath. We may not help them, we cannot save them, engrave them with our “human” stamp. They are here through no fault of their own; they have no choice in these difficult matters. The blood splattered against walls and sidewalks, of botched injections and of drunken wars in night prowls. The howls of the weak are loud in their calling but we cannot help those who do not know they are falling.


The Life

To dream is to struggle, to live in a bubble burst by intentions. The need to satisfy the soul crushed by the powers that be, uplifted by the hands of time only to be let down gently by this determination. Persisting in failure but dwelling deep within the lairs of defeats, refusing to take a seat but hoping not to have to stand on my feet forever.
The struggle is not as much with pen as it is with ambitions; the objectives of men. To succeed, to see words glazed in honey, the succulent sweet nectar that drives wild through the finger onto paper.

The love of words, is that not enough to satisfy the starving soul? Must work be submitted and mulled over? Must everyday life be inspected by eyes wiser? Is it subjective searching only to seek a paragraph that is never found? Work ground down and pounded to dead meat, only for a rare piece of a writer’s heart showing defeat. The veins that harbor the blood of titans, the souls of the gentle, the will of the strong, the right gone wrong,

Bring along the lonely writer, who ignites virtuous thought, the soliloquy that cannot be bought, the refusal wrought from the hopes of passing moments. Day dreaming, planning success, only to find the soul undressed in the open airs of the cold climate of life pressed against cheek. If you have failed, you have tried but if you never try, you have already died between the pages. So I will press this ink onto paper, until the cage opens and I am free to the world, extinguishing the doubts of what is good and bad. A rejection is better than a sad day without my pen and pad.

The Launch

Launching myself to escape monotony
“Man overboard”, they had screamed before they remembered they had forgotten me
safe in my shell reveling in the comforts I dwell
rebelling to a state of affairs as I had when I was twelve

But neither hell nor high water can hold a man intent
on committing acts of folly or on searching for time well spent
I drowned my sorrows the day I threw myself out in the name of liberation
if I was to do it over, I would make the right decisions again without hesitation

Days like these

I do not produce substance of use
old without material of youth
obtuse in my touch
my pen my brush
rushing fingers crushing keypads
on these days designed for the melancholy and mad

How bad can it be, to be me on days as such
when too much is not enough, where my outline is rough
and I stand tough in face of the ticking clock
rocking back and forth
wondering how it will ever stop

Times on Earth’s Moon

I am a moon, a refractor of light
I spark, I glow, my shine is bright
through days and nights
I bear a flag, craters, shuttles that fly past my equator

But I am only a dark secret
planned to be afar
to watch the earth in its entire splendor
only to be closer to stars


Suffer strains and pains for small gains
Rise and claw, clutch and paw your way to a small slice of daily success
blessed beyond a doubt, set apart with a silence in mouth
a bare boned body in a state of shocking drought

Trust no man that seeks glorious thunder but do you look twice with ease at failed attempts at life and the strife of poverty and blunders? The stigma that follows you around, through the cars, buses, and walks through the city. Is it pity? Or is your gritty soul worth all you wish in gold when you are not looking at the mirror. Just a simple face, a person erased from life for sake of their own grace, pacing within the torrid state of affairs. Hair uncombed, roaming alone through parts of life unknown but yet homegrown and ready to be blown onto billboards for the hordes of the empire to admire.

Do you not tire? Do you not wish to cut the barbed wires around your life that hold you in so tight until you perspire the blood, guts, and tears of failed attempts in this blatant satire? But you do not care, cool as cucumbers in the sun’s glare, ready to sit back and relax and let others dare to share their life’s worth in their daily despair.

You are but yourself, especially when we are looking; the ant that lives solemnly for the colony. The rain will fall from the sky, on the same dry patch of land neglected throughout. And slowly but surely, you will forget what this was all about.

Walking Home

Walking alone with you by my side
my eyes closed, my head filled with pride
you poke and you prod for answers to your questions
but I walk alone today for I am immersed in reflection

I do not know why we always walk alone
why I struggle with every step on my long journey home
but I know that I will reach a place that I want in the end
and you will disappear once again as you always do, friend

My World

I wish not to confess my world. I want to hold in all that is within the soul, the good, the bad, the decent people, and the cold that seeped through the doors and cracks of the windows when we thought it was all locked and safe. For the people that made life bearable, the men and women who stood when times were hard to say “We are here and we have not left”. The family that did not forget us, that forgave us, that let us live a life of our chosen labors and love, loved ones that wrapped around us like a glove when we could not see past the end of the week given the disasters of the nights before. When futures were bright despite dark days, when friends were close despite the ways of the world.

The past exploits us as much as the future depends on us. The times gone weigh on us, remind us that life is better but also tug at us to come back; to wish to return to those golden old days. The future wants us intact to have its way with us; to show us that things will be alright while dragging us to stand up and continue.

The immense burden of the polluted mind that wishes to grasp at clarity only finds emptiness in the clear headed light at the end of the tunnel. I know that I will carry the weight I choose to and release all that needs not be told into the wells of my mind. Whether I am the company needed for misery to thrive, or the benefactor of the good intention of the stranger, I dangle my hopes in front of me and carry on.

No regrets shall ensue, no fault shall be laid, and no burden shall ever more hurt us as we carry on into the depth of futures so positive in stark contrast to pasts so checkered. I shall be sad when it is all over, glad it happened and can only wonder what could have been had we never faced the issues that determined our lives and stamped our places on this planet.

Ocean Floor

The world is not my oyster
and I am no pearl
nor earl nor duke nor prince nor king
my existence aside a sting bringing me to open my eyes in shock
to this life, to this tumultuous thing I breathe in
when it has all been cast in stone
and we are severed within

I am not a hopeless man
but I span small
stand tall in my shortness of sight
regardless of the meekness of my idea’s height
despite dark skin that shines so bright

I am not a realist
but hold fears as big as dreams that wish to find the nearest exit
I am the lonely star that dangles from my necklace
denying me the rights to be reckless
and the energy to fight the senseless
to leave this world in the middle of my sentence