Chain-Link Fence

After much contemplation, I’ve decided to just post the poem and allow everyone to interpret it how they please. 


The chain-link fence stands ten feet tall,

twice my height with barbed wire curled

between the thin metal links.


I stare at the fence-at my memories

keeping the dreams within perimeters,

the nightmares hidden in the spikes

protruding every other inch.


Everything inside, slightly out of focus,

my eyes drawn in by the shine of your

teeth reflecting on the barrier.


Your eyes held no shine at all,

a dull, lifeless pair of marbles,

leafy green like that of virgin

Mary’s fine rags. (What an irony)


I was before the fragmentary fence,

the construction carrying on as the

events played out.


I remained on the outside with the

wolf, his breath tickling my nostrils

with the snarls amplifying the weight

of his words-


How beautiful the flower had grown

to become, what a shame the stem

couldn’t live up to the petals.


You did not take the Mary from my

name, but only if we speak in



Just because the fence bares many

holes, does not mean it is fine to

claim one over others because you

like the way it looks in your possession.


Just because you steal one, does not

mean it will not affect the rest, they are

all still connected to one another.

It was of no surprise to me that

everyone liked you- a wolf in

sheeps clothing knows its disguise.


I knew you from when you were but

a florist, until it was decided that I

no longer needed your services.


You climbed your way into my garden

and ripped up the roots that would

have otherwise become the chain-

link of opportunities.


When planted in the flowerbed, I can

no longer take chances with adding

color to my monochromatic theme.


I almost miss the time I was too young

to realize the grower was becoming a

flesh-hungry animal, ready to pounce

on the dandelion who’d finally become

a rose.


I used my thorns like the barbed wire,

attempting to keep you out of my garth.


But the second time you tried to plant

seeds in soil that wasn’t yours, you

complimented my ability to maintain

the overgrowth.


I did not tell you it was prohibited, Instead

let you finish building the chain-link fence

connecting memories to anxiety.



Unravel: The Worst Things You Said

Your god complex got the best of you

Whiskey, your father’s favorite

A habit picked up at sixteen

The age you decided woman were meat

A steak for you dress up

And devour at your leisure

Telling them they’d look better

With a side of fries,

That they’d taste better

With added flavor

You told me how I could be

Would be


With dressing

After four shots of whiskey

And the memories of your father’s wisdom

The god complex you were taught to claim

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.

The Last Straw

A gold band shoved between the cracks

Of a beige coated coach,

In those cardboard walls

Was the turning point

For the misplaced

I love you’s

Stupid not to recognize

The ghost of shadowed tan lines

On the fingers that once whispered

Secrets on my skin

Writing lies in braille

A story book of a man

Who only knows how to write

About the tales

Of being unfaithful

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.

Lonely Fern

This started as a short story I was going to write, and it turned into this poetic piece. 


There is a river along the banks of beauty’s backroads. It never has to feel alone with the intimacy the banks bring it, offering their hands for the gentle strokes of the push-pull flow of the water. The wind nudges the shyness from its grasp, and the river makes friends with the fish, making homes in the darkest sections of the riverbed. A lonely fern stretches its skinny fingers for a chance to taste all that the stream provides, not quite reaching what it longs for. There is a river along the banks of beauty’s backroads. It mesmerizes everything within its view, unaware of the lonely fern among the trees, just out of reach. The stream, devoid of physical flaws, only inciting them in the ones it overlooks. On starry nights, the moon acts as a spotlight, illuminating the ridges in the gentle waves, furthering the tease on the poor, lonely fern, that yearns for the river’s embrace.

A Letter to Myself

One day, you’ll come across something so beautiful,

your lungs will forget it needs oxygen for you because

they want to gift it to this life.


One day, you’ll hold the hand of a love

while looking into the eyes of a fragile

being, and you will finally understand

the importance of being strong for those

who are delicate.


One day, you’ll live a life to be proud of,

not one you want to throw away like

last weeks leftovers.


One day, you’ll smile because you’ll have

purpose, all you have to do is allow the

time to get there.



I hang half-dead on a wall,

displayed and gagged with fear,

I am mute,

the vise tightening against my throat,

fingertips litter the crime scene.


My body was once a temple,

before you entered with your servants,

and ransacked all that belonged to me.


You left me chained to concrete,

my insides broken,

and my voice on mute.

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.