Tell me it’s not my fault
I feel like I’ve fallen down three flights of stairs,
bounced my head off concrete,
swallowed gasoline,
and blew myself up from the inside.
Tell me the pain
of living unwanted
in a world full of desire
isn’t my accountability.
Tell me I’m not to blame
for the bleeding of my heart
and the leaking of my brain.
Convince me I’m not the cause,
because it all feels like my liability.

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


Bipolar: A Play

*Disclaimer: Not my best, or favorite piece*


To help you understand where I’m coming from,
I want you to close your eyes.
Imagine you are watching a play.
I am the screenwriter (and actor).
With just a few directed actions,
I can take you through the show: My Emotions

Act I: Depressive

Depression enters stage right.
It is noon and I am still in bed.
I plant my feet on the floor,
willing a mind to control the body,
and notice the empty room- I mean stage-
I surround myself with.
He follows me center stage,
trailing behind like a shadow.
The rain pours from invisible clouds.

Act II: Manic

Mania enters stage left.
Music plays softly in the background,
our shirts clinging to skin.
She approaches me,
hands linking for a spin,
she takes the lead in this slow dance.
The audience drinks intimacy
from our energy,
but we are only skilled actors.

Act III: Matchmaker

I kick cupid’s bow off stage
and join the audience.
Mania limps center stage.
Depression picks her up.
They share blood from arrow holes,
taking over the show.
We watch the lover’s embrace,
passing on in each other’s arms.

The curtains draw,
and the actors prepare for next month’s showing.

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


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.

Panic Room

Anxiety locked me in this panic room,
forced the gun in my hand and told me
it’s my turn. We’re actively engaged in
a game of russian roulette with my fears,
each shot spraying my thoughts on the
walls, repainting with my brain.

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

If You Died Tomorrow

If you died tomorrow,
I would not be sad,
at first,
I would be angry.

I would become the selfish one,
painting you the bad guy still-life,
making my newfound pain your fault.

I would ask questions like
“how could you do this to me?”
and “Why didn’t you think of the person you’d hurt?”
before considering how long you suffered,
Or how you thought you were doing favors,
removing the glitch in this system,
erasing a mistake from our lives.
Or how depression planted seeds in your mind,
The suicidal thoughts grew forests in your head,
and all you wanted to do
was burn away the overgrowth.

I would not consider your agony,
I would be outraged
with the way you threw away all that we created
In just a few swallows,
Or swipe of a blade.

If you died tomorrow,
I would be angry
at myself.
For not being there
when you needed a virus protector,
Or a shovel to dig up the roots,
and remove the cause of this tragedy.
I would blame myself
For you no longer having a reason
to stay.

And if you were to die tomorrow,
after all this,
I would show the others the way you made me feel,
and together we would anger those we cared about.

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