IV. Pesticides

*This poem is a part III, to a series I have started for events in my life, called To Plant the Memories Like Seeds. Check out the first part, Chain-Link Fence*

He was the fourth in the bloodline
of strength, his father’s pain
passed down from his before him,
lost in the vicious cycle of addiction.

An honorable man, planted and raised in
a broken home, grew above the tarnished
ground walked upon from birth, molded himself
into an expectation of his own.

But success does not detract the
demons living in a brain that forgets nothing
and forgives less, only forgets long enough
to accomplish what was once viewed as
impossible from the fourth in this bloodline.

An intelligent man, overfilling a mind
hungry to lose the memories clouding
his vision on days the past creeps in
like a fog over the trees.

An accomplished man, suffering in a
world unfair to him from the beginning,
drowning in the poison downed for
the silence in the numbness.

Convinced by the enticements of a
blank slate, he succumbed to a monster
that holds him by the throat, and blinds
him from everything he no longer wants
to see.

Check out my new book Penny Poetry, now available on Amazon!



I left you a note
on the doorstep in the meadow
where I witnessed your first teardrop.
The day you plucked petals
off daisies
and swore to become stone
like the wall
at the base of the river. 

I left you a note
on the porch swing in the garden
where we shared our first drink
and you confessed
the way your insides were alive
beneath the concrete
you mixed
for the water to set around you.
The day you told me of the weight
pressing against the dams
you built around your heart,
and began writing your name
in bottle caps.

I left you a note
in the mail slot
at the rehabilitation center
where you spent six months
proving to yourself
that the addiction was not
a guard against your feelings
no matter how hard
you tried to force it to be.

I left you a note
in the Starbucks
on the street with no sign
where I witnessed you sober
for the first time since seventeen.
And you promised to god
that this was the goodbye
to watching your downfalls

I wrote you these notes
with a hand guided by hope
on the doorstep in the meadow
where I’m now forced to realize
the meaning behind those words.
And I wonder
if somewhere
you’re witnessing my first teardrop.

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


It has been six months / but sometimes / I still think of you / still miss the refuge I found in you / miss the way were my medication / calming the pain / my brain couldn’t cope with on its own / It has been six months / but sometimes / I still miss you / I search / for a new addiction / writing my stories in poems / instead of my… / sometimes I still miss you / still miss the way you helped / in some sick and twisted way / still miss you / but no longer need you / no longer itch for your touch / when I can’t feel my own / no longer read the stories in my scars / instead hide them in my words / It has been six months / but sometimes / I still think of you / still miss you / but never need you.

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


You call yourself sober after two days, and I wonder where you hide the symptoms of sobriety. Two days since the green cup mixed Mt. Dew with burning liquor and ice. Two days since you had to rationalize the need for a drink, and two days since I watched your ride your bike for just another drop of poison. For years, I watched you dump the bottles into the greedy hands of addiction, so excuse me if I don’t believe these two days predict the way the future will be. Excuse me, if I don’t think the “better now” will last. It has been two days since you made the call that this is all over, and two days since I thought, “I’ve heard those words sworn before.”

All Things Killing You

I used to think the sickness was a virus,
poison from foods, not the beverages,
too young to understand the hangover remedy
of fingers reaching back to pull forward
toxins you ingested willingly.
I stand by, watching a slow suicide,
useless against the monsters you fight,
as addiction continues to hold you hostage.

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You push yourself for the highest position,
expectations exceed capabilities,
a love-hate relationship blossoms
at a point that you worked so hard for.
You appreciate the pay that brings pain
from working past logical possibility.

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The smoke is handled by the wind,
swirling circles make halos
with every drag you take.
Fate’s subtle reminder of a slow death,
you justify it’s coping with stress.
Nicotine whispers sweet nothings in your ear
and you’re addicted to the intimacy it brings.

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Insomnia makes a deal with stress,
shakes the hand that holds your eyelids open,
forcing activity into a restless mind.
He rolls your conscience into a ball
and plays ping-pong with your thoughts,
leaving you awake to keep score.

Bloodless Murder

You did not love my talent. You were not
infatuated  with the way my mind worked,
bringing simple words together into
visionary pleasures.
You were attracted to my pain, not the poems,
giving me inspiration for my passion. You
fueled both addictions with the bloodless
murder your words committed, each of us
getting a fix through my emotions.


Addiction is like a clingy serial killer.

It starts with a lure;

Are you stressed?

Do you need sleep?

Look at my selection, take your pick and cure your troubles from work.

Once he has you in his grasp, he begins his demands and your trapped; hooked on his line.

Every night, he wants more from you, whispering all the reasons you need him as you’re wrapped in his arms.

You give and he takes, convincing you that somehow, your end of the exchange is greater.

How much can he deceive you before it becomes unbelievable?

You can only be your own superhero, so stop waiting for something else to come save you.

Because soon enough, he’ll ask for your kidneys.

If you refuse, he’ll squeeze til’ they bleed, popped like the sleep aids mixed with your drinks.

The ‘need’ is all in your head so please…

Stop before it’s more than your spirit that’s dead.


Itching, clawing, scratching

Singing in its fangs and yanking

I don’t want to

Don’t want to think

But it demands my attention

Eating away until I give in

“Write them,” it hisses

Blood dripping onto the pages

Forming words in red ink

I don’t want to

Don’t want to feel

The poetry orders me to write it

I’m weak

And soon the pages are soaked

In metallic meanings

And crimson emotions