So tired


When can I rest?

When will I be free?

I want to close my eyes

Give in

Tired of being a survivor

‘What doesn’t kill you, makes you strong’


What doesn’t kill you makes you cold







Age 5



Real life was dangerous

So I ran away.

I flew to Hoth and to Endor,

Walked the streets of Gotham,

Ate pizza in the sewers of New York,

Rescued a Princess in the Mushroom Kingdom

In my stories everything worked out

-They were wrong.

Age 15



Mayhem was my only friend

Trouble followed

Quick to fight. And eager.

Thought the only way to resolve conflict was with fists and blood

-I was wrong.

Age 20

Anger turned inward

Turned into depression

Numb from drugs, sex and alcohol

Docs thought I was bi polar

Councilors thought I had ADHD

Therapists thought I was manic depressive

I thought I was just crazy

-We were wrong

Age 25


Wiser than I probably should be,

Though not as knowledgeable as I think I am

Still cocky,

But humble

Hopeful simplicity and hard work will

Lead to happiness

-I don’t think I’m wrong

Ghosts of the Past

This is still a work in progress…..


Peeled paint and stained floors

Lost dreams and broken doors

Cold nights, hot tempers

No food, Medicare, or dental

Sleeping of beds made of clothes

She looks down at her own, they’re covered in holes

The bugs and the rats eat her alive

Friends at her school, their families strive

Closed doors and closed fists hit her in the face

Deep inside her mind is the only safe place

She had no one to trust, her against y’all

By the time she was eight, she had seen it all

Adults grinding on each other, naked, screaming

Bodies in the yard, crying, bleeding

No one around to share in her pain

She became cold, started playing the game

Punished in school, punished at home

She ran further inside, felt further alone

“This world isn’t fair!” she’d cry and she’d scream

“Why is this place so cold and so mean?”

She started repaying the world the pain she was dealt

A “Fuck Everything” mentality borne in the depths of hell

Her before you, ends justify the means

Looting, stealing, hustling, all for lunch money

Drugs to numb the pain, continuing the cycle

Hating herself for it, feeling suicidal

Potential and talent corrupted by pills

Risking her life for cheap forgotten thrills

On a path straight for self destruction

No future, just enjoying the pharmaceutical seduction

The higher you are, the harder you fall

Sober and in jail, she started going through withdrawals

Faces of the past floated in through her cell

Showed her her path, lead back into hell

She left the old version of her incarcerated

Learned to forgive, watched as anger evaporated

Traded tons of drug fiends for a few good friends

Wherever she could, she tried to make amends

She’s a new person, though her past still follows,

No more like a demon, but armor to wear for tomorrow

A Poem to Dreamers, Artists, and Fools

A Poem for Dreamers, Artists, and Fools

There will be those who shit on you for what you do.
They will trash your ambitions. Say you can’t do it.
They say this because they are too afraid to do it themselves.
They are gutless cravens.
Afraid of the hardworking and the creative.
Afraid of the effort, the time, the love and the blood
we pour into our craft,
the chunks of soul we rip out and expose to the world,
only to be rejected, ridiculed, denied.
They couldn’t handle it.
Their frail self images would shatter from the failings we face.
We didn’t ask to be artists; it’s in our blood.
Creation is our DNA.
A blank piece of white paper is our playground.
We need to be fearless, to face failure and rise again
because we know those cowards won’t lift a finger.
And, without us, us artists,
the poets staying up until 4AM thinking of a four-syllable word synonymous with love,
the fashion designers with their fingers so sore they can barely thread a needle,
the writers absorbing all they witness, like a human data recorders, saving, compiling, for a perfect use,
the singers obsessively humming a tune to a song they know, yet haven’t even recorded yet,
the scultpures constantly seeking new inspiration, new shapes, new patterns,
the jokers looking at the world from unseen angles, connecting ideas never thought of before,
the dancers, the playwrights, the graffiti artists, the painters, and all the creativity between,
without us
the world is dull, repetitive, stagnant.
Without us Earth is a lifeless body living in a vegetative state.
There’s too many employees of the month.
Too many branch managers who take their jobs too serious,
and at the end of the day their “work” means nothing, NOTHING, to the human experience.
How many accountants have changed the world?
How many stock brokers have the power to open the minds of a whole generation?
There’s too much remuneration, not enough inspiration.
Grab your pens, your paintbrushes, your typewriters,
write, draw, paint, create.
You have the power to change the world.
Don’t let them tell you differently.

Random Thoughts

The virgin mary is pullin singles out her g-string

Santa clause is doin rails of blow

The dodgers won the title

And I am feelin low


Mother Theresa is in jail for shoplifting

Water’s been replaced by pepsi

John Kennedy has dropped in for a quickie

With a one eyed tramp whistlin Dixie


Mr. Rogers is givin hand jobs in the alley behind the store

The world is cuckoo for crack

The Taj Mahal is now a brothel

And there’s a knife in my back


The pope is mainlining heroin

The sky’s red as blood

Baltimore is burning

And I’m ready for the flood

The Fish (Short Fiction)

I wrote this a couple semesters ago when my teacher said there was no such thing as an interesting poker story. I took that as a challenge and, hopefully, was able to craft an exciting and funny story. Enjoy! :)





The man sitting across the felt from me couldn’t have been easier to read. We poker players would call him a fish, a flounder, a sucker. This information gave me a huge advantage in this high stakes poker game.

For example, his shirt read, “America don’t BLEED, WE KICK ASS!” which told me he was probably aggressive, so when he raised it, I called, even though i only had Queen, Five.

The man’s haircut, the ‘Mullet’, conveyed the message of little to no intelligence, as one would have to be close to brainless to rock that hairstyle, so, when the flop came out, 2, 5, 4, giving me the top pair, I called his small raise, knowing he didn’t have anything.

The next card the dealer turned over was a 3. I looked at my opponent and the four empty beer bottles next to him, and called his drunken raise of half the pot. Drunks love bluffing.

The last card, another 2, came down and before all four corners of the card could touch the felt, the mulleted man pushed all of his chips in the middle, putting me all in.  He was just a donkey, he didn’t have a quality hand; but there’s always a chance he had a 2, giving him three of a kind, beating my pair.

My gut told me this guy was just trying to bully me out of the pot, or bluffing me to save face, so I called the all-in, and pushed in this month’s rent money, knowing the pot was mine. I threw my Queen, five faces up on the table to let him know I called his bullshit and would be enjoying his chips.

The man looked down at my cards. His face burst out in a genuinely ghoulish smile that will haunt my dreams for years; a smile that said, “Ha Ha, got ya!”  The man flipped over a pocket pair of Aces. Pocket rockets. A, A. These two cards alone beat my pair of fives, but he also had the straight in his back pocket, just in case.

My heart dropped through my empty stomach to the floor. I watched the donkey scoop up my rent money, as I was left to figure out how I lost the game on the very first hand, and where I was going to sleep next month.