Writing long words with short meanings leaning towards obscured feeling.
I am dreaming, do not wake me or take me for a fool. Let me drool upon my pillow, let me struggle with my willow as I set sail and bellow at the top of my lungs “Today I will do well and I shall not be hung”

The clinging struggle upon my expression, without depressions or false impressions, is learning a lesson with every letter to counteract inward repression from the outer world recession.

I am a man, not a girl, I am steel, not a pearl, I am your disease, not a germ, and I am the rain, not a worm.  Now watch me squirm and shake out my freedom, choked at the neck and bleeding for my eardrum until the man is reduced to a pile of rubble, until the metal is melted down to flaccid, until sickness is reduced down to ashes, and the rain is nothing more than a series of wet patches.

Watch me rise with surprise, see my truth turning within your eyes, my silence firmly planted within my cries and joining the ranks of those in success woefully despised. But triumph is fleeting, victories reduced to beatings and so I will keep sleeping and cheating myself of the realities of a world that never promised anything but my defeating.


Teach me to fish
show me the stride
so I know what it is truly like
to be alone in my pride

The pleasure withdrawn from my mind
painted across the room
within grasp of yesterday
but so far out of reach today

A life so light
withdrawn at dawn
taken away in the night
with the droplets of hope
dried upon sight


The young men that march on the soles of their feet, through defeat, through high water, saved from slaughter by the skin of their teeth. In aspiration of those who work hard, to recharge for minutes in this game of hours, performing all within their power to stay afloat refusing to be devoured. For humans overpowered, showered in toil, who boil without breaking sweat, facing threats and placing bets that tomorrow shall be another day without facing regret.
I find my way out of this circle to observe, but it is impossible to jump back in and serve anymore purpose. A cursive, run on sentence fulfilled as human, in splendor of our substance so prudent beneath the surface. I am but a student of life in full flight, learning as I go, hoping for some more time to expose what our daily worth is before I leave forever through our revolving door.


Come alone to discover
uncover truths
ones created, without need for proofs
aloof in my search
warned, scored, torn into pieces for plunder
the thunder that strikes lighting onto places of wonder

A life given, provided, derided and ripped
gripped in soul, touched by cold
I must not hold nor release my burdens
unearthing great mysteries lurking in cavernous workings

Gasping on edge, gripping onto ledges
the thorns in hedges, the flowers in full bloom
giving truth space to blossom
given room to resume


The stories of young and old uniting and meeting at fronts, on bridges, on tracks, on the roads of life so flat from the beating of tires and pounding feet that find all those in between caught out; too thunderstruck to speak when journeys end. Reaching out over the world on my arched bridge of gold, I see those carried away off the roads that merge our destinies in life. For those whom the path cuts early, our meetings in the middle will last no longer. One can simply be thrown from the bridge mid voyage, only to be replaced by another magnificent soul, as priceless as the last. Although we are replaceable, infinite, cheap, we are complex, wonderful, and unique.  The bodies that are friendly in their silver lining define one another in handshakes, in hugs, in the tug of the world that whispers “Please say goodbye and do not come back”.

We fight to stay, to want our way, to play a game we know shall only end in long silence. When I look down this bridge, I find the edges frayed with collisions, those wishing to leave, to give up, to grieve and disappear. How will you achieve what you set out to believe? How shall I come to terms with the end of your leave? When you never return, and I turn away. When welcomes are worn on this tiny bridge, when the ridges and welts swell upon our tiny roads under pressures that wish to destroy this carriage from end to end, who shall be thrown off next? Am I expected to beat my path and blaze a trail only to eventually fail? Yes, I answer the makers of this bridge, for it is none other than me that wishes to walk this road.

Changed Season

Cool winds sweep aside winter chills
bathe me in warmth, that sweet summer breeze

The degrees do not count; only add up to spring’s sprout
the seasonal bouts of black jackets and frosted mouths
no longer about today, as they say, “the sun is out”

Enjoy good weather, skin no longer needed to be thick as leather
soft as darkening evenings, sparkling spring, the lightning in a brightening season

The reason for smiles, the warmth and charity of our seasonal clarity
no more disparity in our distance
our insistence to be resistant peeling off in an instant


Persisting to resist the warm bed of failure on a cold day
without succumbing to martyrdom
numbing in the face of self-disgrace
embarrassed and placed at the bottom of the rungs
tongue tied and defied by the “no’s” that hum incessantly in my ears

There are no more tears in my failures
there is no grief or relief in failed attempts returned to burn me

Climbing the stages on the palms of my hands
until my callused hands are ground down through mud and sand
the crumpled papers that have met the bin
do not amount to the golden words that pass through pages so thin

Plan and prepare for victory
just as one stands and stares in the face of miseries

On Writing IV

Writing to indulge and divulge in surroundings, my fingers pounding the paper. An offended notebook shall make no friends unless it chooses to open its graces to the many faces that may appear to peer within its covers.

A pen that takes orders can be defined as without control. It is impulsive it is in sequence, it does not carve without reason. What do you want, dear pen, aside from the souls of men and hearts of women who hold you from within? Tell me what you wish to achieve and I will show you how it is done. But you submit to a mind of your own, a kind of bone that fidgets between fingers that stand alone, sovereign in their own right.

You would get these fingers cut and my hands severed, revered by some but feared by others. You wish no ill with your ink. What did you think? You could close my eyes and expect me to blink? To sink and swim? To face every whim?

I have a friend in you. Me and you together, a one and two. But still we fear together our words that stumble letter after letter, for worse or better. You are a warm sweater that knits itself for this cold weather. Clawing at souls in ill health, the young in search of their inner wealth.

Spawned from misled fathers that reach for their belt. The slithering eel that needs no spine for an earth without pens so divine.
I wish to bleed my ink dry, to try and remove the blotches of blue from my eye. To spy into souls so cold for a glimpse so bitter.
I am the baby sitter to this dark blue. The prodding stick to your words so true. And dear pen, I would write to you an open letter, for times worse than wants of men on an earth without surrender.

And I will be forever with you, great pen and shall change my tone. You are the drug that stands alone. The breath of rescue that resuscitate the best of you.