Life is NOT a motivational poster
We live in the muck and mire
Of a quicksand
That is forever
S U C K I N G us
Into the bowels of Earth
Where the stench of
Diseased rotting brains
Permeate the air
Till it is absorbed
Into our skin
And crawls through our bones
Looking for souls
That were slaughtered long ago…


I have perfected

the art of hurting

with a smile on my face…


Sometimes love

is just about


2:30 A.M.

The noise

is soft

at first.


yet demanding –

I raise my head

to listen.

It has my attention –

But I know

it’s just a warning perhaps,

this time…

I try and crawl

into the black

arms outstretched

reaching deeper.

It worked –

this time…

It was all I could do.

But they will come back

I know they will…

And I will fight.

I will always fight…


The room was white and sterile
With an odd smell of bleach
And linen

I didn’t like the setting
Anymore than I liked the doctor
Or his news

I listened to his diagnosis
And his recommendations
For treatment

Since there is no cure
I’m given “options”
Two to be exact

He leaves the room
I guess he thinks
My decision requires solitude

After a while passes
He returns for an answer
I went with option 3

With a puzzled look
He relays
“There was no option 3”

Well Doc, I said –
“That is MY option”
And I thanked him for his time


The tough guys
stand on the corner
under the street lamp
(faces hidden)

They are fearless
(in groups)

They steal
They challenge
They fight
They cry

They are fragments

They are whole

We turn away
But why?


is my first reaction
to everything

It is my savior
my rescuer
my buffer
my mantra

Don’t mistake me
for someone you know
It’s likely we never met


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